FROM   THE   LIBRARY  OF 
REV.   LOUIS    FITZGERALD    BENSON,   D.  D. 

BEQUEATHED    BY   HIM   TO 
THE   LIBRARY  OF 


PRINCETON  THEOLOGICAL   SEMINARY 


10 


POEMS. 

By   Mrs.   M.   S.   B.   DANA 


V  FEB  17  1033  * 


PARTED    FAMILY, 


OTHER    POEMS. 

AN  OFFERING  TO  THE  AFFLICTED, 

AND 

A    TRIBUTE    OF   LOVE    TO    DEPARTED   FRIENDS 

MARY    S .    B .    DANA, 

Author  of  "  The  Southern  Harp,"  &c. 


Is  it  well  with  thee?    Is  it  well  with  thy  husband  ?    Is  it  well  with  the 
child  ?  "    And  she  answc  red,  u  It  i?  well." 

II  Kings  iv.  96. 


NEW-YORK: 
PUBLISHED   BY   DAYTON   &   SAXTON 

CORNER  OF  FULTON  AND  NASSAU  STREETS. 

BOSTON. 

SAXTON     AND      PEIRCE. 

1842. 


Entered,  according  to  the  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1841,  by 
MARY   S.    B.   DANA, 
In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for  the 
Southern  District  of  New- York. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE. 

The  Parted  Family,          - 

-     13 

To  an  Absent  Husband,           ... 

21 

To  a  Dear  Absent  Friend,              - 

-    23 

The  Conflict,               .... 

25 

The  Dying  and  the  Dead,              - 

-    39 

The  Mother  to  her  Departed  Child,    - 

44 

The  Burial,           - 

-    47 

The  Fading  Rose  Bud, 

64 

The  Death-Bed  Scene,      - 

-    68 

The  Joys  of  Grief,       -            -            -            - 

81 

The  Second  Burial.          - 

-    98 

A  Voice  from  Heaven,              - 

113 

The  Solitary  Walk,          - 

-  116 

To  my  Mother,           --■■-. 

122 

To  Mr.  and  Mrs.  II.  N.  Davis,  of  St.  Loui^, 

-  123 

The  Change,                .... 

126 

Don't  Cry.  my  Mother,                               - 

-  129 

To  my  Husband's  Picture, 

133 

Rejoice  with  those  who  do  Rejoice, 

-  135 

To  my  Dear  Departed  Friend, 

137 

My  Sister,            - 

-  138 

To  a  Sister,  in  the  Repose  of  Death, 

153 

To  my  only  Sister,           - 

-   1-31 

Vlll  CONTENTS. 

PAGE. 

My  Brother, 156 

Passing  under  the  Rod,    -----  174 

The  Joy  of  the  Christian,       -            -            -  178 

The  Prayer  of  the  Widow,           -            -            -  -  181 

New  Haven,   ------  184 

Dialogue  between  the  Savior  and  the  Mourner,  -  -  186 

Chastening^  a  Proof  of  Love,             -            -  189 

To  Die  is  Gain,     -            -            -            -            -  -  192 

On  a  Flower,  plucked  from  the  Grave  of  Mrs.  C.  B.,  193 
Invocation  to  Sleep,          -----  196 

Heaven,          ------  198 

To  a  Mother  with  a  Dying  Child,             -            -  -  202 

An  Invocation  to  Death,          -            -            .            -  205 

0 !  Sing  to  me  of  Heaven,            -  206 

To  a  Dying  Christian,             -            -            -            -  208 

Chiefest  among  Ten  Thousand,  and  altogether  Lovely,  209 

God's  Love  to  Israel,        -            -            -            -  -  211 

Hymn  to  the  Trinity,              .-            -            -            -  212 

Mount  Auburn,     -            -            -            -            -  -  214 

The  Gift, 217 

The  Ever  Present  Friend,             -            -            -  -  220 

I  go  to  Prepare  a  Place  for  You,          -  221 

To  the  Rev.  J.  P.,  of  Boston,      -              -            -  -223 

Heaven  on  Earth,        -----  225 

The  Joy  of  Solitude,         -             -            -            -  -  227 

There  Remaineth  therefore  a  Rest,     -            -            -  228 

Exceeding  Great  and  Precious  Promises,               -  -  230 

Blessed  are  the  Meek,            -            -            -  231 

Trust  in  Heaven,               -            -            -            -  -  233 

Lines  on  the  Death  of  A.  C.  Whitridge,          -            -  235 

When  shall  it  be  ? 237 

I  will  Trust  in  the  Covert  of  thy  Wings,        -            -  238 

To  the  Ashley  River,      -            -            -            -  -  239 

One  Woe  is  Past,         -            -            -            -            -  241 

To  my  Frail  Body,            -            -            -            -  -  242 

A  Hymn  for  the  Afflicted,       -            -            -            -  244 


CONTENTS.  IX 

PACE. 

The  Bereaved  Father  to  his  Son,              -             -  -  245 

Where  is  the  Better  Country  ?             -             -             -  249 

To  a  Mother,  on  the  Death  of  a  Daughter,          -  -  252 

A  Morning  Hymn,       -----  254 

Song,        -            -            -            -            -            -  -  255 

Hymn,             ------  256 

The  Bended  Knee, 258 

The  Holy  Bible, 259 

Song,        -            -            -            -            -            -  -  261 

A  Funeral  Hymn,        -----  262 

Search  the  Scriptures,      -----  264 

God  is  Faithful, 265 

Lovest  thou  Me  ?              -            -            -            -  -  266 

The  Dying  Mother,     -----  267 

Smiling,  though  Sad,        -            -            -            -  -  271 

The  Poet's  Wealth, 273 

Thy  Will  be  Done, 277 

Whom  the  Lord  Loveth,  he  Chasteneth,       -            -  278 

If  there  be  therefore  any  Consolation  in  Christ,   -  -  2S0 

All  Joy, 281 

The  Mourner's  Resolve,               -            -            -  -  283 

Wherefore  Glorify  ye  the  Lord  in  the  Fires,               -  284 

Lines  on  the  Death  of  Henry  Dickson,     -  286 

The  Dying  Hadgi, 288 

Real  Comfort,       -            -            -            -            -  -  302 

Song,  -------  305 

Song,        -------  306 

To  Mrs.  William  H. 308 

The  Dream  of  the  Sick,   -            -            -            -  -  310 


PREFACE. 


It  is  with  some  degree  of  diffidence,  that  the  writer  of  these  Poems 
presents  them  to  the  public.  The  unexpected  and  abundant  favor  with 
which  her  late  work.  u  The  Southern  Harp/1  has  been  every  where  re- 
ceived, has  given  her  heartfelt  gratification  ;  and  perhaps  her  latent 
susceptibility,  reused  by  the  flattering:  encomiums  of  an  indulgent  pub- 
lie,  may  blind  her  judgment,  and  lead  her  into  error.  When  she  is  in 
danger  of  venturing  beyond  her  depth,  and  sinking  in  the  treacherous 
waves  of  popular  favor, 

••  May  some  kind  power  the  giftie  gie  her, 

To  see  herself  as  others  see  her," 

Or  kindly  lend  a  helping  hand, 

To  lead  her  from  the  dang'rous  strand. 

It  is,  however)  but  justice  to  the  writer  to  say,  that  many  of  these 
Poems  have  been  submitted  to  th<'  inspection  of  those  in  whose  judg- 
ment she  could  confide,  and  she  has  been,  with  very  cheering  expres- 
sions of  approbation,  strongly  advised  to  give  them  to  the  public  ;  and 
many  of  her  afflicted  friends,  who  hare  perused  them,  have  not  only 
advised  their  publication,  but  have  made  it  a  subject  of  earnest  request. 
A  lew  of  them  hare  appeared  in  tl  York  Observer,'' "  The 

i  Mirror,"  and  other  periodicals;  but  by  far  the  greater  part  of 
them  are  now  published  for  the  iir-t  time. 

It  wiU  not  require  much  penetration  to  discover  that  most  of  the 
Poems  have  been  hastily  written,  and  written  rather  under  the  guidance 
of  feeling  than  of  sober  reflection  ;  but,  from  the  nature  ef  their  sub- 
jects, this  last  feature  will  lie  easilj  understood,  it  was  some  tune 
after  tie  severe  afflictions  \<>  whi  b  silusi  before  the  writer 

could  dwell  upon  them  m  this  way.  and  thus  render  more  vivid, 


Xll  PREFACE. 

which  were  already  too  prominently  before  her  mind  ;  yet  it  was  a 
tribute  of  love  she  was  anxious  to  pay  to  the  dear  departed,  and  such 
things  should  not  be  too  long  deferred.  Perhaps,  hereafter,  when  time 
shall  have  shed  its  healing  balm  upon  her  heart,  they  can  be  essentially 
improved. 

While  the  writer  would  solicit  the  indulgence  of  the  literary  public, 
she  invites  that  kind  and  candid  criticism,  which  would  tend  to  improve 
her  style,  and  correct  her  faults. 

'Tis  said  that  ancient  authors  on  the  shelf 
Laid  by  their  works  till  years  had  roll'd  away  j 
But  ah  !  they  did  not,  like  my  humble  self, 
Live  in  an  age  of  steam  !    Each  passing  day 
Now  flies,  and  with  it,  many  a  sparkling  ray 
Of  native  genius  flies —  for  want  of  time, 
Lost  to  our  darken'd  world.    'Tis  true  they  say 
Men  never  wrote  so  much,  both  prose  and  rhyme  j 
But  then  their  writings  range  from  silly  to  sublime. 

This  truly  is  an  age  for  making  books  ; 

And  many  now  are  candidates  for  fame, 

Who  give,  like  some  ingenious  pastry  cooks, 

A  patch'd-up  dish  with  new  high  sounding  name  ; 

And  Fortune,  who  is  aye  a  partial  dame, 

Oft  wreathes  the  laurel  round  a  brainless  head, 

'Till  grave  posterity,  with  wiser  aim, 

Unwreathes  the  victor's  brow,  alive  or  dead, 

And  gives  the  laurel  crown  to  modest  worth  instead. 

M.  S.  B.  D. 


THE   PARTED    FAMILY 


"  Wait  on  the  Lord,  be  of  good  courage,  and  he  shall  strengthen  thy 
heart  ;  wait,  I  say,  on  the  Lord."    Psalm  xxvii.  14. 

Toll  not  for  every  joy  a  parting  knell  ! 

Say  not  to  every  smile,  a  last  farewell! 

O  ye,  who  mourn  in  sorrow's  darkest  night, 

Wait  on  the  Lord.     He  dwells  enthron'd  in  light ! 

His  glory  can  irradiate  the  gloom 

Of  every  heart,  whose  hopes  are  in  the  tomb  ! 

There  is  a  power  can  pierce  the  darksome  cloud 

Which  overhangs  your  soul  with  sable  shroud. 

O,  when  the  soul  is  lifted  up  to  Heaven 

By  the  meek  penitent,  who,  sorrow-driven, 

Flies  to  her  Savior  God,  and  stretches  high 

Her  supplicating  hands  in  agony, 

Bearing  aloft  to  Heaven  her  bleeding  heart, 

In  silent  eloquence  to  plead  her  part  j 

Then  comes  an  influence  down,  soft,  sweet,  and  still, 

Like  dews  of  night,  on  some  fair  grassy  hill 

Parch'd  by  the  noonday  sun,  whose  drooping  flowers 

Hold  up  their  heads,  and  wait  the  morning  hours, 

1 


14"  THE    PARTED    FAMILY. 

To  spread  their  sparkling  beauties  to  the  light, 
And  gladden  weary  mortals  with  the  sight. 
So  comes  to  those  who  wait,  a  potent  balm 
From  God's  own  hand  —  a  spirit-soothing  calm, 
Which  strengthens  all  the  heart,  and  sheds  abroad 
A  savor  of  th'  almighty  love  of  God. 
So  soft,  so  sweet,  so  still,  its  gliding  flow, 
None  see  its  coming,  all  its  presence  know. 

I  saw  a  sufferer  once  —  her  wounds  were  deep^ 
And  wide,  and  deadly,  yet  she  could  not  weep  ; 
But  drop  by  drop  her  heart's  blood  seemed  to  go, 
And  misery  sore  drank  up  her  spirit's  flow. 
Pale  grief  sat  pictured  on  her  woful  face, 
And  every  movement  gave  despair  a  place. 

Not  long  she  suffer'd  thus  —  she  rais'd  her  eyes, 

All  burning  in  their  anguish,  to  the  skies, 

With  outstretch'd  arms  and  bursting  heart  she  cried 

To  Him,  whose  pierced  hands  and  bleeding  side 

Told  of  his  dying  love,  "  O,  pity  me  ! 

O,  pity  me  !  I  cast  myself  on  thee  !  " 

Was  all  that  she  could  say  ;  but  Jesus  heard 

Her  broken  cry,  and  at  his  sovereign  word, 

Sweet  tears  came  trickling  down  her  marble  cheek, 

And  tenderly  did  angel  voices  speak  : 

They  whisper' d  gently  in  her  ravish'd  ear, 

"  Jesus  is  here,  sad  mourner  !     Do  not  fear." 

Fast  fled  the  gloom  from  that  o'erclouded  brow, 
And  peace  stole  softly  o'er  her  features  now  j 
And  a  new  song  was  given  her  to  sing, 
Though  all  was  gone  to  which  her  heart  could  cling, 


THE    PARTE  I)    F  A  K  I  L  Y .  1  5 

And  she  a  stranger  was  in  thai  far  land. 

Without  a  tender  mother's  fostering  hand) 

Far  from  a  father's  eYer  watchful  care, 

Far  from  a  sister's  sympathizing  tear  — 

Still  could  she  sing  with  rapture-beaming  eye, 

Her  pallid  features  brightening  joyfully, 

And  Heaven  was  all  her  theme.      Her  voice  would  ring 

ateful  anthem  to  the  glorious  King 
Who  conquer'd  death,  and  made  the  lonely  tomb 
Seem  a  soft  resting  place,  a  peaceful  home, 
Where  the  tired  wanderer  shuts  his  weary  e\ 
And  bids  a  fflad  farewell  to  tears  and  sighs. 

And  0,  the  soul  !   she  saw  in  visions  bright, 
The  veil  withdrawn  which  hides  the  world  of  light, 
Her  eye  of  faith  she  raised  with  fearful  joy, 
And  they  were  there  —  her  husband  —  and  her  boy  ! 
Sweet  hope  of  Heaven  !  thou  art  a  healing  balm  ; 
If  storms  arise,  thy  deep,  rich,  holy  calm, 
Comes  with  a  spirit-influence  to  the  breast, 
And  to  the  weary  mourner  whispers  —  rest  ! 
Rest  —  for  the  fondly  loved,  the  early  dead  ! 

—  for  the  longing  spirit,  heavenward  fled! 

—  from  a  tiresome  path,  in  weakness  trod! 
-in  the  bosom  of  the  Savior,  God  ! 

Far  in  the  west  —  the  boundless,  prairie d  west, 
Where  nature  revels,  in  her  beauty  drest, 

Where  roll  the  waters  of  that  noble  stream, 
"  Father  of  Rivers"  called  —  the  poet's  theme  ! 
How  oft  the  traveler  deems  he  finds  a  home, 
And  plants  his  weary  feet,  no  more  to  roam, 


16  THE    PARTED    FAMILY. 

Feasts  his  delighted  eyes  on  pastures  green, 
Nor  dreams  a  blight  can  mar  the  lovely  scene ! 
But  many  there  no  place  of  rest  may  have, 
Save  in  one  little  spot  —  their  early  grave  ! 

Homes  of  the  west !  too  oft  your  precincts  prove 
Sad  sepulchres  of  woman's  dearest  love  ; 
The  tombs  where  lie  enshrined  her  brightest  joys, 
When  ruthless  death  her  earthly  hope  destroys. 
Bright  was  her  home  whose  tale  of  wo  I  tell ; 
Hope  ever  paints  her  glittering  landscape  well, 
And  fair  the  tissues  love  and  fancy  show, 
While  joy  o'er  spreads  the  whole  with  radiant  glow. 

But  now  the  scene  was  changed  from  earth  to  Heaven  ; 
O'er  things  below  brooded  the  gloom  of  even  ; 
But  an  attractive  brightness  drew  her  gaze, 
Where  Heaven's  pure  light  stream'd  in  effulgent  rays. 
And  strangers  gazed,  and  wondered  at  the  sight ; 
Round  that  lone  being  glow'd  a  hallow' d  light  j 
Upon  her  pale  thin  face  a  heaven-born  smile 
Play'd  like  a  sunbeam  on  some  lonely  isle. 
Yet  plaintive  were  her  tones  in  speech  or  song, 
Like  the  low  moaning  wind  the  trees  among, 
And  you  could  see  her  tender  heart  was  riven, 
And  all  the  love  she  had,  she  gave  to  Heaven. 

Oft  when  the  god  of  day  had  sunk  to  rest, 

And  twilight  lingered  in  the  rosy  west, 

Still  would  she  wander  forth  with  noiseless  tread, 

And  by  a  secret  influence,  spirit-led, 

Seek  the  same  spot  to  which  her  step  would  stray 

With  those  she  loved  —  but  now,  O,  where  are  they'? 


THE  PABTID  FAMILY.  17 

At  that  soft,  holy  hour,  in  days  gone  by, 

There  might  be  Been  that  joyous  family, 

Husband,  and  wife,  and  child  —  'twas  all  so  fair 

Where  all  was  love,  it  made  an  Eden  there  ! 

Retired  from  all  the  stirring  scenes  of  life, 

Who  look'd  so  happy  as  that  fair  young  wife  \ 

The  hand  she  loved  had  raised  that  vine-clad  bower. 

And  o'er  it  trained  full  many  a  fragrant  flower; 

The  heart  she  prized  was  beating  near  her  side, 

How  throbl/d  her  own,  that  moment,  in  her  pride  \ 

On  a  soft  :  at  together  there, 

Her  hand  in  his,  the  breeze  that  waved  her  hair 

Seem'd  not  so  sweet  to  that  confiding  one. 

As  the  warm  breath  of  him  she  gazed  upon, 

As  o'er  her  with  a  touching  smile  he  bent, 

And  spoke  of  love,  and  joj',  and  sweet  content. 

Her  head  lay  pillow'd  on  his  noble  breast  ; 

O,  that  she  e'er  should  lose  her  place  of  rest  ! 

Her  prattling  boy  was  standing  at  her  knee  ; 

Clear  rang  his  silver  voice  in  tones  of  glee, 

As,  shouting  to  his  faithful  dog,  he  cried, 

ne,  Ralph,  get  up  !   I  '11  take  a  little  ride  !  " 
Then  would  lie  strive  to  mount  in  mirthful  mood, 
But  fractious  oft  he  found  his  charger  rude, 
Now  up,  now  down,  the  boy  or  dog  would  be, 
Over  and  over  tumbling  playfully. 

The  smiling  parents  watch  their  sportive  play, 
Well  pleased  to  see  their  darling  boy  so  gay  j 
The  mother  whispers  in  her  husband's  ear, 
"la  he  not  beautiful  ]  "  she  says,  "  my  dear  !  " 
"He  is  a  noble  boy,"  he  quick  replies, 
"  O,  long  may  he  be  spared  to  bless  our  eyes  ! 

1* 


18  THE    PARTED    FAMILY. 

11  But  see  !  thy  mute  guitar  neglected  stands  ; 
"  Come,  dearest,  take  it  in  thy  willing  hands, 
"  And  sing  to  me  one  of  thine  own  sweet  songs, 
u  Surely  the  need  of  song  to  thee  belongs." 

Thus  sweetly  urged,  she  tunes  her  soft  guitar, 
While  the  still  evening  sends  her  notes  afar ; 
Quick  at  the  sound,  her  music-loving  boy 
Stands  at  her  side,  partaker  of  their  joy  ; 
His  playmate  too,  the  shaggy  dog,  sits  by, 
Observing  all  with  meek  obedient  eye. 

And  now  her  fingers  sweep  the  tuneful  strings, 
As  thus,  with  trembling  voice,  she  plaintive  sings 

Gently,  gently,  beating  heart ! 
Love  not  earthly  things  too  well ; 
Those  who  love  may  quickly  part, 
Sorrow's  waves  too  soon  may  swell. 

Softly,  softly,  boding  fear ! 
Tell  me  not  of  fleeting  bliss  ; 
Ever  would  I  linger  here, 
With  a  joy  so  pure  as  this. 

Shame  thee,  shame  thee,  earthly  love  ! 
Chain  not  thus  my  spirit  here  ; 
Earth  must  change,  and  joy  must  prove 
Sure  precursor  of  despair. 

I  Cheer  thee,  cheer  thee,  child  of  God4 
:  Trust  in  Heaven,  and  all  is  well ; 
Come  the  smile,  or  fall  the  rod, 
Cheer  thee,  cheer  thee,  all  is  well ! 


THE    PARTES    F  A  M  I  L  V  .  ]!» 

The  pensive  BOng  thus  ended,  all  was  still  ; 
A  warning  roice  had  told  of  coming  ill; 

A  big  tear  gather'd  in  the  mother's  eye, 

But  ere  it  dropp'd,  the  lather  silcntly 

Wiped  it  away,  and  kiss'd  his  wife's  pale  cheek, 

Though  not  a  word  could  either  parent  speak. 

The  startled  boy,  with  anxious  restless  eye, 

Gazed  on  each  one  by  turns  mysteriously  ; 

His  quiv'ring  lip  crave  signal  of  distr- 

And  seemVl  to  a>k,   k*  AI y  mother,  what  is  thifl 

She  who  had  wrought  the  spell  was  troubled  too, 

To  see  what  one  foreboding  song  could  do  ; 

O,  was  there  need  to  feel  her  music  so  1 

Was  this  the  presage  of  a  coming  wo  \ 

She  play'd  again  a  lively  interlude, 

And  sang  once  more  a  song  of  merrier  mood  j 

The  spell  was  broken,  and  blest  music's  power 

Was  felt  again  in  that  eventful  hour  ; 

Bright  smiles  were  seen  where  gloom  had  been  so  late, 

And  burden' d  hearts  threw  off  their  gathering  weight  : 

Unconscious  childhood  turned  again  to  play, 

And  peace  resunvd  its  own  delightful  sway. 

There  sits  a  mourner  solitary  now, 
With  downcast  eyes,  and  pale  dejected  brow ; 
Cold  is  the  pillow  where  she  laid  her  head, 
When  last  they  sat  beneath  their  favorite  shade  ; 
Hush'd  is  the  voice  which  ever  to  her  own 
Answer'd  in  tones  of  tenderness  alone  ; 
Still'd  are  the  merry  notes  of  childish  glee, 
And  she  is  left  —  of  all  that  famliy. 


20  THE    PARTED    FAMILY. 

She  looks  abroad,  and  sees  no  welcome  smile  ; 
No  cheerful  sounds  her  long,  long  hours  beguile  ; 
She  looks  within  —  and  all  is  mute  despair  ; 
She  looks  to  Heaven  —  O,  joy!  her  all  is  there  ! 

Do  angels  hover  o'er  that  lonely  place, 

Bearing  sweet  messages  of  heavenly  grace  ? 

Do  sainted  spirits  come  from  Heaven  to  those 

Whom  they  have  loved  on  earth,  to  soothe  their  woes  1 

See  !   o'er  her  face  how  spreads  a  kindling  ray, 

She,  who  must  tread  alone  her  weary  way. 

But  oft  in  secret  hours  her  tears  must  flow, 

For  sweet  are  tears  to  hearts  o'ercharged  with  wo. 

Well,  pour  them  freely  forth,  they  end  with  night,* 
Bright  joy  stands  waiting  for  the  morning  light. 
A  little  longer  now,  and  all  is  won  ; 
Thou  hast  till  break  of  day  to  struggle  on. 
Poor  tired  wanderer  !  gather  all  thy  strength  ; 
See,  from  the  east  gray  morning  dawns  at  length  ! 
Hail  to  the  breaking  day  !  one  moment  more, 
Tears,  sighings,  groans,  and  sorrows,  all  are  o'er. 
Raise  up  thy  head  —  bright  gleams  the  morning  sun, 
Hail  to  thy  home  in  Heaven,  poor  sorrowing  one  ! 
July,  1840. 

*  "  Weeping  may  endure  for  anight,  but  joy  cometh  in  the  morning." 


TO    AX    ABSENT   HUSBAND. 


The  following  piece  was  composed  while  viewing  a  beautiful  sunset 
from  the  capitol  at  Washington,  in  September,  l>3o. 

The  day  draws  near  its  close,  love, 

But  I  am  far  from  thee  ; 
A  sweet  and  calm  repose,  love, 

This  hour  once  brought  to  me. 
But  now  I  am  alone,  love, 

And  all  the  weary  day, 
I  feel  that  thou  art  gone,  love, 

How  can  I  then  be  gay  \ 

Could' st  thou  with  me  enjoy,  love, 

This  glorious  sunset  hour, 
Of  bliss  without  alloy,  love, 

My  soul  would  feel  the  power. 
But  now  my  mourning  heart,  love, 

Is  struggling  to  be  free  ; 
O,  could  it  hence  depart,  love, 

Twould  join  itself  to  thee. 


22 


TO    AN    ABSENT    HUSBAND 


If  hanging  on  thy  arm,  love, 

I  could  with  rapture  gaze, 
And  view  without  alarm,  love, 

Those  mild  departing  rays  j 
But  now  they  speak  of  change,  love, 

And  dearest  pleasures  gone, 
Thoughts  to  my  bosom  strange,  love, 

Sad  thoughts  come  rushing  on. 

If  nought  of  pain  or  harm,  love, 

Could  cloud  our  future  days, 
Then  nature's  sweetest  charm,  love, 

Would  nought  but  pleasure  raise  : 
But  in  a  changing  world,  love, 

We  often  have  to  mourn  j 
Hope's  banner  now  unfurl' d,  love, 

May  soon  be  rudely  torn. 


If  thou  wert  with  me  now,  love, 

I  could  not  shelter  thee, 
But  if  thy  head  must  bow,  love, 

That  head  could  rest  o?i  me  ! 
And  I  could  share  the  blow,  love, 

Or  soothe  thee  when  it  came, 
In  gladness  or  in  wo,  love, 

Thou  'It  find  me  still  the  same. 


TO   A   DEAR   ABSENT   FRIEND. 


How  sweet  the  early  life  of  those 
Whose  hearts  and  hands  are  bound  together  ! 
O,  sweet  as  childhood's  calm  repose, 
Those  days  of  bright  and  sunny  weather. 

Their  bark  is  on  the  stream  of  life, 
And  no  dark  cloud  is  gathering  o'er  it, 
There  comes  no  sound  of  stormy  strife, 
To  sweep  that  little  bark  before  it. 

The  elements  now  sweetly  rest, 
Or  with  an  infant's  strength  are  playing 
Around  the  bark  on  ocean's  breast, 
In  that  sweet  spot  with  joy  delaying. 

Now  in  the  gently  breathing  spring, 

The  south  wind  in  its  course  hath  found  them  ; 

And,  like  an  insect's  fluttering  wing, 

But  stirs  the  balmy  air  around  them. 

O,  sweet  spring  time  of  life  !  how  sad 
The  thought  thou  canst  not  always  linger  j 


24?        TO  A  DEAR  ABSENT  FRIEND. 

But  when  the  heart  beats  warm  and  glad, 
'Tis  touch'd  by  winter's  icy  finger. 

Poor  little  bark  !  't  will  not  be  long 
Thou'lt  bear  them  on  through  life  so  sweetly  ; 
When  wintry  winds  blow  fierce  and  strong, 
This  lovely  scene  will  change  completely. 

Well,  let  them  come  !  when  all  grows  dark, 
They  '11  share  the  gloom,  and  keep  the  nearer  ; 
Affection  lights  a  brilliant  spark, 
And  sadden'd  love  grows  ever  dearer. 

When  heart  meets  heart,  the  life  blood  warm 
Will  never  freeze  in  wintry  weather  ; 
If  comes  the  cold  and  biting  storm, 
Those  two  fond  hearts  can  beat  together. 

October,  1835. 


1 


THE   CONFLICT.* 


'Twas  night.     No  star  was  shining  in  the  sky  ; 
The  moaning  winds  had  lulFd  themselves  to  rest, 
And  all  was  still  as  death.     His  plaintive  cry 
Even  the  lonely  whip-poor-will  suppress'd, 
And  droop'd  his  head  upon  his  rounded  breast. 
Silence  and  darkness  o'er  I  he  landscape  reign'd; 
All  nature  was  in  mournful  sable  drest ; 
The  mountain  rivulets  seem'd  all  enchain'd, 
Or,  with  a  stealing  step,  the  distant  vallies  gain'd. 


II. 

Silence  is  eloquent.     It  speaketh  to  the  heart ; 
It  hath  a  potent  language,  all  its  own, 

•  Charlf*  Falmer  Dasa.  son  of  Charles  E.  and  Mary  S.  B.  Dana, 
died  in  Bloomington,  Iowa  Territory,  August  20th,  1S39,  aged  0 
and  3  months. 

'•  Woman  !  thy  son  liveth." 


26  THECONFLICT. 

Which  bids  the  tear  of  sorrow  freely  start. 
The  pensive  mourner  loves  to  weep  alone  ; 
And  silent  night  is  lonely.     We  are  prone 
To  mask  our  feelings  in  the  light  of  day, 
And  smile  when  we  could  weep.     O,  many  a  groan 
Is  smother'd  in  its  birth  ;  and  many  a  ray 
Shoots  from  the  sparkling  eye,  when  tears  are  on  their 
way. 


III. 

I  said  'twas  still  as  death.     Well,  death  was  nigh. 

Where  burn'd  the  taper's  dim  and  flick'ring  light, 

A  weary  mother  sat,  with  anxious  eye 

Gazing  upon  her  boy.     All  deadly  white 

The  suff'rer  looked,  as  though  its  upward  flight 

The  spirit  had  already  taken.     But  the  low 

Faint  breathing  still  was  heard  —  the  eye  was  bright, 

Nor  did  the  inexperienced  mother  know 

That  Death  stood  at  the  door,  to  give  the  fatal  blow. 


IV. 

0,  Hope,  sweet  Hope  !  when  even  Death  is  near, 

How  fondly,  madly,  do  we  cling  to  thee ! 

Nor  can  we  from  the  heart  thy  presence  tear, 

Till  we  are  forced  by  stern  necessity, 

Till  Death  steals  in,  and  ends  the  tragedy ! 

And,  even  then,  Hope  leaves  us  not  alone. 

The  hopes  of  earth  are  false  —  hopes  heavenly 

Stand  by  us  when  all  other  joys  have  flown, 

And  in  the  suff'ring  heart  erect  their  lasting  throne. 


T  II  E    C  ONFLICT. 


V. 


The  mother  knew  not  that  her  boy  would  die  ; 

And  yet  the  semblance  of  a  chilling  tear 

Waa  creeping  round  her  heart  —  and  in  her  eye 

Would  gather  now*  and  then  a  pearly  tear, 
And,  for  a  little  moment,  tremble  there  ! 
Then  would  she  brush  it  hastily  away, 
And  hush  the  sigh,  lest  he  should  see  or  hear, 
Who,  spent  with  watching,  on  the  sola  lay, 
To  rest  his  aching  head  until  the  dawn  of  day. 


VI. 

He  was  the  father  of  her  darling  boy, 
Who  long  had  watch'd  through  many  a  weary  niirht ; 
And  pleas'd  she  was  to  see  him  now  enjoy 
Refreshing  sleep  —  yet  'twas  a  sadd'ning  sight, 
To  see  them,  in  the  pale  and  glimmering  light, 
Both  look  so  deathlike  ;  while  she  stoop'd  to  trace 
Each  vein  so  blue,  beneath  the  skin  so  white, 

scarce  refrahfd  from  kissing  each  dear  face, 
And  waking  both  the  sleepers  with  a  fond  embrace. 


VII. 

She  left  them  to  their  peaceful  rest  awhile, 
And,  stepping  softly,  gain'd  the  open  door; 
The  house  was  built  in  simple  western  style, 
With  all  its  chambers  on  the  lower  floor  ; 
In  fact,  of  stories  it  could  boast  no  more 


28  THE    CONFLICT. 

Than  simply  one.     'Twas  at  the  river's  side, 

And  near  it  grew  a  noble  sycamore  ; 

A  velvet  lawn  of  green,  outspreading  wide, 

Sloped  smoothly  down  to  meet  the  ever  rippling  tide. 


VIII. 

Long  at  the  door  the  wife  and  mother  stood, 
With  ear  intent  to  catch  the  slightest  sound 
From  those  pale  sleepers.     Deep  solicitude 
Within  her  breast  its  gloomy  way  had  found, 
And  round  her  heart  its  cutting  cord  had  bound. 
But  now,  the  calmness  of  the  midnight  hour, 
While  earth  reposed  in  silence  so  profound, 
Brought  back  to  memory  the  days  of  yore, 
When  life's  fair  path  was  strew 'd  with  many  a  fragrant 
flower. 


IX. 

In  blooming  myrtle  bowers  she  seem'd  to  rove, 
'Mid  shady  orange  groves  to  wend  her  way, 
And  jasmine  vines  were  twining  far  above, 
Where  sang  the  Mocking-bird#  his  varied  lay, 
And  Nonpareils  among  the  leaves  did  play. 
Bright  buttercups  along  her  path  did  bloom  ; 
It  seem'd  not  night  —  it  seem'd  refulgent  day ; 
The  flowers  of  memory,  amid  the  gloom, 
Were  wafting  o'er  her  soul  their  odorous  perfume. 


*  The  Mocking-bird  and  the  Nonpareil  are  birds  peculiar  to  the 
south. 


THE     CONFLICT*. 


X. 


O,  Memory!   thou  skilful  architect! 

Thy  handiwork  doth  ne'er  offend  the  taste  ; 

Thou  1) idest  from  the  view  each  dark  defect, 

And  show'st  a  structure  beautiful  and  chaste. 

Thou  lookest  backward  o'er  life's  dreary  waste, 

And  gath'rest  flowers  thy  home  to  beautify  ; 

But  all  the  thorns  that  in  thy  path  were  placed, 

Thou  leavest  there  upon  the  path  to  die  : 

<  >.  Memory!   thou  hast  a  wise  discerning  eye! 


XI. 

And  skilfully  thou  hast  the  art  to  paint 

'  beautiful  perspectives.     Lights  and  shades 
So  blended,  that  the  darkest  shades  grow  faint, 
By  rosy  light  so  tinged.     Thy  hills  and  glades 
Look  mellow  in  the  distance,  nor  invades 
That  bright  domain,  one  sad  unpleasing  scene  ; 
No  shameful  blot  that  master  piece  degrades : 
Yea —  cheerful  Memory  !  'tis  true,  I  ween, 
That  all  thy  fairy  land  looks  beautiful  and  green. 


XII. 

Come  forth  from  thy  concealment,  silver  Moon  ! 
Come,  lend  thy  cheering  influence  to  the  heart, 
And  ride  in  beauty  to  thy  highest  noon ! 
Night  is  too  cheerless  when  thy  smiles  depart  ; 
Thou  peerless  orb!  night's  fairy  queen  thou  art ! 
Ah,  see  !  from  Luna's  face  the  clouds  have  fled, 
Her  lovely  rays  their  mellow  light  impart  j 

2* 


30  THECONFLICT. 

Then,  while  a  pensive  smile  her  face  o'erspread, 
With  softly  whisp'ring  voice  the  lonely  watcher  said : 


XIII. 

"  O,  happy  days  of  childhood,  when  each  hour 

Was  full  of  life's  enjoyment !  when  no  care 

On  my  young  heart  had  tried  its  palsying  power ; 

When  all  I  saw  a  rosy  hue  did  wear, 

And  mirthful  smiles  did  chase  each  transient  tear ! 

When  in  my  bosom  slept  its  latent  pride, 

And,  all  unmoved  by  fashion's  gaudy  glare, 

No  meteor  bright  had  turned  my  feet  aside, 

And  I,  nor  knew,  nor  dreamed,  that  evil  could  betide ! 


XIV. 

O,  those  were  halcyon  days,  those  days  of  youth ! 

That  sun-bright,  dewy  morning  of  my  life, 

When  all  around  wore  the  bright  garb  of  truth ; 

Before  I  knew  that  earth  with  wo  was  rife ; 

Ere  I  had  heard  or  seen  the  din  or  strife 

Which  all  too  soon  salutes  the  eye  and  ear ; 

Before  my  breast  had  felt  the  sharpen'd  knife 

Affliction  points  at  every  bosom  here  ; 

O,  those  were  blissful  days,  when  all  my  sky  was  clear. 


XV. 

There  is  a  peaceful  river  near  my  home, 
Along  whose  banks  the  moss-grown  evergreen 
Spreadeth  an  ample  shade,  a  leafy  dome, 
Where  happy  birds  may  warble  all  unseen. 


THE     C  0  N  P  L  U'T.  8  1 

Sweet  Ashley!  well  I  love  thy  walks  serene! 

Thy  gentle  murmur,  as  thou  glidesl  by, 

Whispers  to  me  of  many  a  joyous  scene; 

0,  when  the  past  returns  to  memory, 

By  Carolina's  streams  I'd  lay  me  down  and  die. 


XVI. 

But  why  this  yearning  for  the  buried  past  1 
And  why,  my  heart,  this  anxious,  gloomy  fear  1 
If  my  domestic  bliss  could  ever  last, 
0,  surely,  1  should  find  my  heaven  here  ! 
But  something  tells  me  there  is  sorrow  near  ; 
Some  sad  foreboding  weighs  my  spirit  down ; 
And,  ere  I  know  it,  fast  th'  unbidden  tear 
Springs  to  my  eye.     Ev'n  nature  seems  to  frown  ; 
The  moon  has  hid  herself — the  chill  night  breezes 
moan. 


XVII. 

O,  why  does  my  imagination  thus 

Run  riot  in  a  world  of  fancied  woes  \ 

Why  do  I  brood  o'er  dangers  perilous, 

And  so  disturb  the  present  calm  repose  1 

He  who  in  search  of  future  trouble  goes, 

Will  find  it  near  at  hand  —  even  at  his  side  ; 

Imagined  evils  are  the  worst  of  foes  ; 

More  dang'rous  they  than  sorrow's  sudden  tide, 

Which  flows  upon  the  soul,  but  does  not  there  abide. 


32  THE     CONFLICT 


XVIII. 


Man  is  a  compound  of  strange  mysteries, 

Which  to  unravel  needs  almighty  skill; 

The  soul,  enchain'd  by  unknown  sympathies, 

Oft  feels  a  sadness  unaccountable, 

An  ominous  warning  of  some  coming  ill, 

From  which  it  shudd'ring  turns,  and  tries  t'  escape, 

But  turns  and  tries  in  vain  —  for  boldly  still 

Th'  unwelcome,  horrid  fantasies  will  creep 

Before  his  mental  eye,  in  many  a  fearful  shape. 


XIX. 

I  cannot  shake  it  off — this  heartfelt  pain  ! 
Thou  knoAv'st,  O  God !  what  lines  are  writ  for  me  ; 
Whatever  comes,  I  will  not  dare  complain. 
Perhaps  thou  'It  take  my  lovely  boy  to  thee  — 
O,  can  it  be,  my  Father  !  can  it  be  1 
No  —  no  —  he  must  not  die  —  thou  wilt  not  take 
Our  treasure  from  our  hearts — we  are  but  three  — 
Thou  wilt  not  this  delightful  union  break  — 
O,  spare  him  —  spare  our  boy  —  for  thine  own  mercy's 
sake. 


XX. 

Last  night,  when  fell  delirium  rack'd  his  brain, 

He  turn'd  to  me,  and  kiss'd  me  o'er  and  o'er ; 

Yes  —  yes  —  while  tears  ran  down  our  cheeks  like  rain, 


THE     CONFLICT. 

He  kissM  his  father  too.  ten  times  or  more, 
And  call'd  us  by  each  name  he'd  lov\l  before ! 
thus  our  idol  bidding  us  farewell  \ 
•his  explain  the  look  his  features  wore  ! 
Was  this  the  reason  why  our  hearts  did  swell, 
And  floods  of  burning  tears  in  briny  torrents  fell .; 


XXI. 

I<  this  the  reason  why  his  father  now 
Oft  views  me  with  a  sad  portentous  gaze, 
And  why  the  frequent  cloud  steals  o'er  his  brow, 
And  why  his  look  some  secret  grief  betr;: 
Whene'er  I  speak  of  hope,  a  sad  smile  plays 
Around  his  lips  awhile,  and  then  'tis  gone  : 
He  pleads  for  resignation  when  he  prays, 
As  though  some  gift  were  soon  to  be  withdrawn  ; 
Some  dear,  some  cherish'd  gift,  he  'd  set  his  heart 
upon. 


XXII. 

0  can  it  be  my  noble  boy  must  die  \ 

See  —  dearest  Lord!    I  stretch  my  hands  to  thee, 
And  through  my  streaming  tears  I  gaze  on  high, 
In  silent,  helpless,  heartfelt  agony  ! 
0,  Father!  hear  a  mother's  yearning  cry  ! 
Save  him  —  my  Father!   save  my  darling  son! 
Now,  now,  while  darkness  veils  the  midnight  sky, 

1  pray  thee  be  the  healing  work  becrun  ! 

O,  hear  my  broken  prayer,  thou  glorious  Three  in  One  ! 


34  THE     CONFLICT 


XXIII. 


Take  from  my  lips  this  bitter,  bitter  cup, 

If  it  be  possible,  my  Father  God ! 

He  is  my  only  son  —  my  joy — my  hope  — 

O,  Savior  !  who  affliction's  vale  hast  trod, 

I  pray  thee  to  avert  the  threat'ning  rod ! 

This  was  thy  prayer,  Jehovah's  equal  Son! 

Now  may  it  reach  thy  glorious  abode ! 

But,  if  my  darling's  mortal  race  be  run, 

O,  give  me  grace  to  say,  thy  blessed  will  be  done  ! 

XXIV. 

If  I  could  arbitrate  my  doom,  and  choose 

What  should  be  on  the  morrow,  I  would  fear 

Jehovah's  high  prerogative  to  use. 

1  My  times  are  in  thy  hand '  —  I  leave  them  there  ; 

But,  what  thou  sendest,  give  me  strength  to  bear ! 

To  the  shorn  lamb  thou  temperest  the  blast ; 

O,  now  regard  me  with  peculiar  care, 

My  Father  God  !     I'll  trust  thee  to  the  last, 

Though  now  with  frowning  clouds  my  sky  is  overcast. 

XXV. 

Say  to  this  tempest  raging  in  my  breast, 

Say  to  these  heaving  waters,  '  Peace  — be  still ! ' 

This  whelming  tide  of  agony  arrest ! 

Send  heavenly  peace,  that,  like  a  gentle  rill, 

May  flow  within  my  soul !     Thy  holy  will 


THE     C  0  N  F  L  I  r  T  . 

Be  done  on  earth,  as  now  'tis  done  in  Heaven  ! 
This  aching  breast  with  sweet  submission  fill! 
Though  by  the  dreadful  stroke  my  heart  be  riven, 
0,  help  me  to  resign  the  gilt  thy  love  has  given  ! 


XXVI. 

Take  him,  my  Father  !  take  him  if  thou  wilt  — 
My  breaking  heart  withholds  him  not  from  Thee  ! 
The  rock  on  which  my  every  hope  is  built, 
Stands  firm  —  the  Rock  of  Ages  !  cleft  for  me  ! 
Here,  holy  Father  !  on  my  bended  knee  — 
Alone  —  beneath  the  darkened  vault  of  Heaven  — 
Once  more  —  once  more  —  I  cry  in  agony, 
Though  by  the  dreadful  stroke  my  heart  be  riven, 
0,  help  me  to  resign  the  gift  thy  love  has  given  /" 


XXVII. 

The  mother  rose  from  off  her  bended  knee, 

And  clasped  her  hands  upon  her  heaving  breast  ; 

Just  then,  a  strain  of  softest  melody, 

Stole  sweetly  on  that  hour  of  midnight  rest, 

Like  angel  song  breathed  out  by  spirit  blest. 

'Twas  plaintive  —  yet  'twas  heavenly.     Such  a  thing 

May  be,  why  may  it  not  \     Such  tones  may  best 

Become  redeemed  spirits,  when  they  sing 

The  oleeding,  dying  love,  of  Heaven's  eternal  King. 

XXVIII. 

And  yet  'twas  earthly  music.     There  was  one 
Who  loved  to  warble  at  the  midnight  hour  ; 


36  THECONFLICT. 

She  was  a  stricken  mourner  - — prone  to  shun 

The  noisy  crowd,  and  daylight's  dazzling  power  j 

Her  melancholy  mind  could  not  endure 

This  weary  world's  confusion.     All  day  long 

She  sat  retired  within  her  secret  bower, 

While  on  the  willows  high  her  harp  was  hung  — 

'Twas  only  in  the  night,  she  tuned  her  harp  and  sung. 


XXIX. 

When  came  the  midnight  hour  with  peaceful  calm, 
Congenial  to  the  contemplative  mind  — 
That  hour  when  holy  mem'ry  doth  embalm 
(Within  the  heart,  for  future  use  enshrined,) 
Treasures  of  thought,  from  earthly  dross  refined  — 
'Twas  then  she  wander' d  forth  from  human  sight, 
In  nature's  solitude  sweet  peace  to  find, 
Or  far  on  high  to  wing  her  mental  flight  ; 
And  oft  with  plaintive  song  she  charm'd  the  ear  of 
nisfht. 


XXX. 

Night  is  the  time  for  music  —  when  the  sounds 
Of  man's  untuneful  instruments  are  still  j 
When  hush'd  is  all  the  noise  that  so  confounds 
The  delicate  sense  of  hearing.     Then  from  hill 
And  vale,  soft  echoes  wake  to  catch  the  trill 
Of  warbling  nightbird  —  or  the  lively  air, 
When  love  enlists  the  serenader's  skill 
To  make  sweet  music  for  the  list'ning  fair  — 
Or  the  sad  songbreath'd  out  from  heart  oppress'dwith 
care. 


THE     CONFLICT.  37 

XXXI. 

It  was  that  mourner's  sons:  the  mother  heard  ; 
It  came  \vi*h  soothing  to  her  troubled  breast, 
And  all  the  elements  so  lately  stirr'd 
In  wild  confusion,  gently  sank  to  rest, 
And  pitying  Heaven  granted  her  request. 
Xow  at  the  bedside  of  her  dying  son, 
While  on  his  pallid  brow  her  lip  she  press'd, 
And  while  she  felt  that  he  was  almost  gone, 
She  sweetly  smiled,  and  said,  u  God's  blessed  will  be 
done." 


XXXII. 

The  father,  waken' d  from  refreshing  sleep, 

Xow  rises  to  resume  his  watchful  care, 

And  forward  coming  with  a  muffled  step, 

He  sees  his  wife  and  boy  together  there. 

And  then  with  tears  the  mother  said  —  "  My  dear  ! 

I  have  been  trying  to  resign  our  son  5 

Come,  kneel  with  me,  give  thanks  to  God  in  prayer, 

That  now  the  conflict 's  o'er  —  the  vict'ry  won, 

And  from  my  heart  I  say,  O,  God !  thy  will  be  done  !" 


XXXIII. 

She  flies  into  her  husband's  open  arms, 
And  on  his  bosom  pours  a  flood  of  tears  ; 
There  had  she  often  flown,  when  gath'ring  storms 
At  distance  seen,  had  roused  her  timid  fears. 
O,  surely  now  a  darker  cloud  appears, 
Than  any  which  had  cast  its  sombre  shade 

3 


38  THE     CONFLICT. 

O'er  life's  fair  path,  in  all  their  bygone  years  : 
O,  who  but  God  in  such  an  hour  could  aid, 
Or  where  but  on  high  Heaven,  eould  now  their  hearts 
be  stayed  1 


XXXIV. 

The  heavy  hearted  love  the  throne  of  grace  ; 
'Tis  only  there  they  can  their  burdens  leave, 
And  all  the  earthborn  cares  that  so  debase, 
And  all  the  tempting  snares  that  so  deceive, 
Do  lose  their  pow'r  when  we  to  Heaven  cleave. 
"  Is  any  one  afflicted  1  Let  him  pray !  " 
Go,  kneel,  ye  sorrowing  ones !  and  thus  receive 
That  heavenly  peace,  whose  soul  enlivening  ray 
The  world  can  never  give,  nor  ever  take  away* 


XXXV. 

Together  kneeling  at  the  sufferer's  side, 
They  pour'd  their  sorrows  in  Jehovah's  ear  ; 
And  when  in  vain  to  him  has  mourner  cried  1 
Such  cries,  0,  when  has  God  refused  to  hear  ! 
Sad  hearts,  O,  when  has  God  refused  to  cheer  1 
In  fond  embrace  they  knelt,  and  pray'd  to  Heaven, 
And  Heaven's  almighty  King  in  love  drew  near, 
And  though  beneath  the  stroke  their  hearts  were  riven, 
They  both  gave  back  to  God  the  gift    his  love   had 
given ! 


Charleston,  May,   1841. 


THE   DYING   AND    THE    DEAD 


Come  to  the  bed  of  death ! 
Draw  near  —  the  dying  hour  has  come  ; 
The  spirit  now  is  going  home ! 
Come,  see  the  suff'rer — almost  free 
From  life,  and  life's  last  agony  — 

Resign  his  breath ! 


- 


Beautiful  sight  —  but  sad  ! 
That  cheek,  so  lately  clad 

In  rosy  bloom, 
Now  lays  its  roses  by, 
Preparing  thus  to  die  ; 
For  roses  must  not  lie 

In  the  dark  tomb ! 

It  is  a  child  who  dies  — 
His  lovely  deep  blue  eyes 

Are  fixed  in  death ; 
Why  should  the  sweet  boy  die  1 
Why  should  such  beauty  lie 

The  sod  beneath  1 


40  THE     DYING     AND     THE     DEAD. 

'Tis  ever,  ever  thus  ! 
The  loveliest  blossoms  we  can  find, 
With  numerous  tender  cords  we  bind, 
And  fasten  firmly  to  the  heart ; 
But  Death  comes  in  to  play  his  part, 

And  cuts  the  fibres  loose  ! 

Pale  as  a  tenant  of  the  tomb, 
Who  comes  into  that  dying  room, 

Supported  by  his  friend  1 
Why  steals  a  tear  down  every  face  1 
Why  do  all  move  to  give  him  place  1 
Why  springs  the  mother  to  his  side  1 
Why  seeks  she  thus  her  grief  to  hide, 

As  o'er  him  she  doth  bend  1 

It  is  the  father,  come  to  lie 
Beside  his  boy  —  and  see  him  die, 

Ere  his  own  life  has  fled  ; 
'Tis  a  sad  sight  to  see  — 
That  mournful  tragedy  — 

That  dying  bed ! 
There  sits  the  mother  —  pale  Avith  woe  ; 
There  lies  the  father  —  faint  and  low  ; 

There  gasps  the  dying  boy  ; 
And  friendly  strangers,  gather'd  there, 
Breathe  out  the  sigh,  and  drop  the  tear  ; 

Mournful  employ ! 
There  too,  unseen,  is  One. 
God's  well  beloved  Son, 
Waiting,  when  all  is  o'er, 
In  every  heart  to  pour 

The  oil  of  joy  ! 


THE     D  Y  I  N  G     A  ND     THE     DEAD,  11 

A  kind  physician  standeth  near, 
And  looks  of  grief  his  features  wear  ; 

He  hears  the  mother  say  — 
u  0,  Doctor  !  must  my  darling  die  1 
Though  fixed  and  glazed  his  lovely  eye, 
Is  there  no  hope  that  he  may  still 
Revive,  and  live  to  bless  thy  skill  1  n 

O,  God  !  he  answers  —  "  Nay  " — 
And  slowly  turns  away  his  head, 
And  wipes  the  tear  that  moment  shed, 
And  leaves  the  room  with  silent  tread, 
For  hope's  last  glimm'ring  ray  has  fled  ! 

wk  ^\Iy  husband  !   something  must  be  done  — 
Resign  not  hope  till  life  is  gone —  " 
So  plead  the  mother  —  but  he  took 
Her  hand,  and  gave  her  one  sad  look  — 

He  knew  that  all  was  o'er  ; 
And  as  he  feels  the  boy's  faint  pulse, 
Cold  shudderings  his  frame  convulse  ; 
But  silently  for  strength  he  prays, 
And  gently  to  the  mother  says, 

M  He  '11  breathe  but  few  times  more." 

0  !  what  a  bursting  tide  of  grief, 

Has  given  that  mother's  heart  relief!  — 

She  's  calmer  now: 
And  while  her  boy  lies  motionless, 
She  looks  to  Heaven  —  then  stoops  to  kiss 

His  pale  —  pale  brow  ! 

There  was  a  warm,  unwavering  friend, 

Had  watch'd  beside  him  to  the  end,  — 

3* 


42        THE  DYING  AND  THE  DEAD. 

His  faithful  dog ; 
He  was  a  well  tried  friend  and  true, 
And  Charley  loved  him  fondly  too  ; 
Whene'er  a  list  of  friends  was  made, 
His  much  loved  dog  would  surely  head 

The  catalogue. 
And  tears  of  sympathy 
Gush'd  forth  from  many  an  eye, 

By  strangers  shed  — 
The  boy  was  well  beloved, 
Where'er  his  footsteps  roved, 
And  none  were  seen  unmoved 

Around  that  bed. 

But  suddenly 
The  sick  man  rises  —  takes  his  boy 
With  all  the  strength  he  can  employ, 
And  lays  him  on  his  own  fond  breast, 
That  dear,  that  well  known  place  of  rest, 

There,  there  to  die  ! 

Now  fainter,  fainter  grows  his  breath  — 
Chill' d  by  the  icy  touch  of  Death, 

His  little  heart  grows  cold ; 
O,  hear  the  mother's  parting  word  — 
"Farewell  —  receive  his  spirit,  Lord!  " 
And  see  !  O,  see  !  she  stoops  to  sip 
The  last  cold  dew  from  that  pale  lip  — 

Behold  — behold! 

Upon  his  father's  noble  breast, 
The  gentle  boy  has  sunk  to  rest  — 
Th'  immortal  spirit  fled ! 


THE     D  Y  I  N  (,      A  N  D     THE     D  B  A  I)  . 


And  'tis  a  mournful  sight  and  rare, 

To  sec  them  lie  together  there  — 

The  dying  and  the  dead ! 


May  27th,  1S4-1. 


THE    MOTHER   TO    HER    DEPARTED 
CHILD. 


I  must  not  weep  for  thee, 
In  hopeless  agony, 

My  baby  dead ! 
Away  from  earthly  things, 
From  sorrow's  deadly  stings, 
On  bright  angelic  wings, 

Thus  early  fled ! 

Ere  thou  hast  tasted  woe, 
'Tis  better  thou  should'st  go 

To  perfect  bliss ; 
My  darling  —  heavenward  fled  !  - 
O,  shall  I  hang  my  head, 
And  mourn  my  baby  dead, 

And  weep  — for  this  1 

Go,  cherub,  to  thy  rest ! 

Yes  —  leave  thy  mother's  breast, 

For  Jesus'  arms ! 
Sweet  babe  !  I  bid  thee  go  ! 


THE    MOTHER    TO    HER    DEPARTED    CHILD.      45 

Ah.  me  !  too  well  I  know, 

To  thee  /  could  not  show 

Such  heavenly  charms ! 

My  baby  !   soon  I  must 
Resign  thy  sleeping  dust  — 

Smiling  in  death! 
What  did1  st  thou,  baby,  see, 
Which  made  thee  smile  on  me, 
When  Death  stood  near  to  thee, 

Stealing  thy  breath  \ 

A  gleam  of  sweet  surprise 
Lit  up  thy  languid  eyes, 

And  polish'd  brow ; 
And  the  same  heavenly  ray 
Around  thy  lips  did  play, 
As  pass'd  thy  life  away, 

And  9H$  there,  now  ! 

I  never  thought  that  I 
Could  see  my  baby  die, 

Yet  feel  like  this  ; 
Dead  —  dead  —  and  yet  so  fair  ! 
No  anguish  —  no  despair 
Comes  o'er  me  while  I  dare 

Thy  lips  to  kiss! 

Those  lips  that  smile  in  death  — 
I  almost  feel  the  breath, 

As  once  it  came, 
When,  sleeping  on  my  knee, 
While  burned  my  love  for  thee, 


46  THE  MOTHER  TO  HER  DEPARTED  CHILD 

Thy  breath,  so  sweet  to  me, 
Did  fan  the  flame  ! 

My  beautiful  !  my  own  ! 
Soon  will  they  lay  thee  down, 

Beneath  the  sod  ; 
Farewell  —  my  baby  dear  ! 
O,  God  !  forgive  this  tear  ! 
Thyself  this  heart  must  cheer, 

My  Father,  God ! 

I  '11  thank  thee,  every  day, 
That  o'er  this  pale  cold  clay, 

My  baby  dead  ! 
I  've  felt  as  now  I  feel  — 
Though  down  the  tear  drops  steal, 
Thou  dost  thy  love  reveal, 

And  grief  has  fled  ! 

Charleston,  March  28,  1841. 


THE    BURIAL 


.nger  !  thou  pitiest  mo,  she  said, 
Willi  lips  that  faintly  smiled, 
As  here  I  watch  beside  my  dead, 
My  fair  and  precious  child. 

But  know  the  time-worn  heart  may  be 

By  pangs  in  this  world  riven, 
Keener  than  theirs,  who  yield,  like  me, 

An  angel  thus  to  Heaven. "' 

Mn>.  Hemans. 


There  was  silence  deep   and   deathlike,  as  the  silence 

of  the  tomb, 
when  a  startling  si^li  was  heard,  in  that  funereal 

room. 
Where  lay  a  lovely  cherub  boy,  smiling  as  if  in  sleep  ; 
It  was  the  smile  that  conies  with  death,  and  whispers, 

u  Do  not  weep, 
When  those  you  love  are   snatch'd  away    from  earth 

and  all  its  cares  ;  " 
it  strange  a  smile  should  be  the  last  farewell  to 

tear<  ' 


48  THE     BURIAL. 

He  was  a  cherish'd  only  son,  that  fair  and  noble   boy, 
His  father  and  his  mother  saw  in  him  their  pride  and 

And  he  was  bright  and  beautiful,  ev'n  to  a  stranger's 
eye, 

For  those  who  saw  him  at  his  play,  could  never  pass 
him  by, 

But  often  have  they  stopp'd  awhile,  to  kiss  his  fore- 
head fair, 

And  part  upon  his  open  brow  his  clustering  auburn 
hair. 

And  when  upraised  his  beauteous  eye,  with  a  confiding 
gaze, 

I  Ve  thought  it  was  as  cherubs  look,  that  sweet  angelic 
face  j 

So  innocent,  so  passing  fair,  so  full  of  love  and  bliss  ; 

It  brings  a  thought  of  Heaven  to  earth,  sweet  child- 
hood's happiness  ! 

O,  types  of  Heaven  they  oft  may  see,  whose  thoughts 
to  Heaven  ascend, 

When  things  all  lovely  to  behold  their  daily  steps 
attend. 

Why  lies  that  babe   so  silent  there,  in   monumental 

rest, 
Why  moves  he  not  from  hour  to  hour,  nor  heaves  his 

gentle  breast  % 
Why  does  the  mother  place  her  hand  upon  his  marble 

cheek, 
Then  move  her  bloodless,  quiv'ring  lips,  though  none 

can  hear  her  speak  1 


THE      BURIAL.  4-9 

Why  meets  he  not  her  ardent  gaze  with  smiles  of  in- 
fant bliss  1 

And  why,  0,  why  returns  he  not  that  long  impas- 
sion'd  kiss! 

Why  sleeps  the  tender  infant  there,  and  not  upon  his 
bed? 

Why  does  the  mother  sever,  too,  those  ringlets  from 
his  head  \ 

Why  does  she  slowly  curl  them  thus,  around  her  fin- 
gers fair, 

And  on  them  gaze  so  mournfully  —  those  locks  of 
auburn  hair  ? 

Why  does  she  press  them  to  her  lips,  and  press  them 
to  her  breast  \ 

Why  does  her  heart  seem  like  to  break,  with  feelings 
unexpress'd  1 

Why  wanders  she  from  room  to  room,  with  face  so 
deadly  pale  ? 

And  why  so  languid  is  her  step,  as  though  her  strength 
would  fail  ? 

And  yet,  why  sits  upon  her  brow  such  resolution 
*  high  \ 

What  means  that  strange  impressive  look,  seen  in  her 
moisten' d  eye  1 

Why  come  the  strangers  there  to  gaze,  who,  weeping, 
turn  away 

Whene'er  the  mother  stoops  to  kiss  that  lovely  sleep- 
ing clay  \ 

Why  does  the  dog  lie  prostrate  there,  with  such  a 
mournful  eye  1 

4 


50  THE      BURIAL. 

Why  does   the  mother  stoop  to  him,  whene'er   she 

passes  by  ? 
Why  does  he  instant  raise  his  head,  with  slow  and 

solemn  grace  1 
Why  does  the  mother  place  her  cheek   against  his 

hairy  face  1 
Why  does  he  give  that  piteous  whine,  so  full  of  grief 

and  pain, 
And  when  the  mother  turns  away,  lie  prostrate  there 

again  % 

Why  do  the  neighbors  standing  round,  such  pitying 

looks  exchange, 
And,  when  they  see  the  mother  smile,  why  say,  "  'Tis 

passing  strange  1  " 
And  why  do  tears  come  gushing  forth  from   many  a 

friendly  eye, 
Whene'er    they  hear  her    softly  say,    "My   blessed 

angel  boy  1  " 
Why  do  they  gaze  upon  her  thus,  with  troubled  looks 

of  dread, 
As  though  they  feared  another  storm  would  burst  upon 

her  head  1 

What  means  that  group  of  busy   ones,  on  some  sad 

work  intent  1 
Why  does  the  mother  near  them   stand,  with  eyes 

upon  them  bent  1 
Why  do  they  all  keep  silence  there,  as  though  they 

feared  t'  intrude  1 
Why  does  the  mother's  look  express  such  heartfelt 

gratitude  1 


THE      BURIAL.  '1 

Who  are  those  lovely  silent  ones  —  that  group  of  la- 
dies fail  \ 

Why  do  they  ply  the  needle  thus  —  what  are  they 
doing  th< 

O,  list  to  me,  and  1  will  tell  —  that  beauteous  boy  is 
ilead  ; 

The  father,  in  another  room,  lies  on  his  dying  bed  ; 

And  she  who  glides  from  place  to  place,  and  wears  so 
lad    a  smile  — 

That  wife  and  mother  —  who  can  tell  what  thoughts 
her  bosom  fill  \ 

For  many  sad  mysterious  things  ye  've  asked  the  rea- 
son why  : 

O,  does  not  this  explain  full  well  each  mournful 
mystery  ! 

Beside  her  husband's  dying  bed  the  mourning  mother 
stands, 

And  on  his  cheek,  and  on  his  brow,  she  lays  her  trem- 
bling hands, 

And.  bending  low  her  fragile  form,  she  whispers  in 
his  i 

"  Our  darling  boy  has  gone  to  Heaven,  you  know  he 
has,  my  dear  !  " 

He  gazes  on  his  loved  one  long,  and  says,  with  plain- 
tive tone, 

u  O,  yes,  our  boy  has  gone  to  Heaven,  and  I  shall  fol- 
low soon." 

A\  hat  makes  the  mother  tremble  thus,  and  close  each 

tearful  eye, 
And  murmur  forth,  with  quiv'ring  lip,  "  O,  no,  you  will 

not  die  — 


52  THE     BURIAL. 

You  will  not  leave  me  here  alone  —  God  will  not  take 

away 
The  noblest  boy  that  ever  lived,  and  you  my  earthly 

stay." 
Fair  mourner  !  in  a  few  short  hours   thy   hopes  must 

all  depart  ; 
'Tis  pity  that  all  hope  must  die  within  that  trusting 

heart. 

Trust  on  —  trust  on  —  a  little  while,  nor  yield  thee  to 

despair  ; 
The  blow  that  soon  shall  fall  on  thee,  God  give  thee 

strength  to  bear  ! 
Ah,  little  know  the  thoughtless  world,  what  woman 

can  endure 
For  those  she  loves,  when  she  believes  their  happiness 

secure  ; 
In  utter  self-forgetfulness,  while  all  her  heartstrings 

bleed, 
O,  she  can  yield  them  up  to  Heaven,  and  joy  that  they 

are  freed  ! 

'Tis  even  so —  she  proved  it  well,  that  mother   and 

that  wife, 
When  she  was  willing  to  resign  those  dearer  far  than 

life; 
The  time  came  on  —  it  linger' d  not,  when  that  warm 

loving  heart, 
From  one  to  which  it  firmly  grew,  was  rudely  torn 

apart ; 
And  yet,  forgetful  of  her  pain,  while  every  fibre  bled, 
She  joy'd  to  think  her  dearest  love  to  heavenly  bliss 

had  fled  ! 


THE     BURIAL. 

And  I  have  told  how  she  could  smile,  as  o'er  her  boy 

she  bent  ; 
O,  it  was  when,  with  faith's  glad  eye,  her  glance  to 

Heaven  she  sent  ; 
Yes  —  though  the   lovely   infant  form  was   stretch' d 

upon  its  bier, 
'Twas  sweet  to  think  —  'twas  sweet  to  know,  the  spirit 

was  not  there ! 
Clad  in  a  sinning  robe  of  light,  his  face  illumed  with 

She  saw  the  iilorious  spirit  form  of  her  sweet  angel 
boy! 

Enfolded  in  the  Savior's  arms,  one  moment  he  would 
be, 

While  every  smiling  feature  glow'd,  all  bright  with 
ec  stacy  ; 

And  when  she  seem'd  to  catch  his  eye,  he  'd  spread  his 
golden  wings, 

And  stretch  his  little  arms  to  her,  whose  bright  ima- 
ginings 

Were  bearing  her  away  from  earth,  to  Heaven  and  to 
her  child  ; 

When  such  a  vision  met  her  gaze,  what  wonder  that 
she  smiled  1 

And  with  such  high  and  holy  thoughts,  firm  fastened 
to  the  skies, 

What  wonder  that  such  looks  were  seen  in  those  im- 
pressive eyes  1 

r 


54  THE     BURIAL. 

It  was  not  strange,  though  strange  it  seem'd  to  those 

who  ne'er  had  known 
The  pure  ecstatic  "joy  of  grief,"  the  trust  in  Heaven 

alone. 
O,  if  there  be  a  holy  joy,  unmingled,  it  is  this  — 
For  those  we  best  have  loved  on  earth,  the  certainty  of 

bliss  ! 

Weep  not,  ye  strangers !  weep  not  thus,  for  her  who 
is  bereaved  — 

Ye  surely  weep  uot  for  the  soul  so  late  to  Heaven  re- 
ceived ! 

I  know  'tis  sad,  'tis  very  sad,  to  see  that  fair  young 
flower  — 

That  rosebud  bright  and  beautiful,  all  withered  in  an 
hour  5 

But  could  ye  look  away  from  earth,  and  from  the 
yawning  tomb, 

In  deathless,  bright,  unearthly  tints,  ye  'd  see  that 
flow'ret  bloom. 

And  now,  behold  !  those  silent   ones  —  that  group  of 

ladies  fair  ! 
They  've  finished  each  her  mournful  task  ;  what  were 

they  doing  there  1 
Why  did  they  ply  the  needle  thus,  on  white  unsullied 

lawn, 
And  now,  because  their  task  is  done,  why  have  they 

thus  withdrawn  1 
The  lovely  group  of  busy  ones,  who  fear'd  to  speak 

aloud, 
Were  making  for  that  sleeping  dust,  its  burial  dress  — 

its  shroud  ! 


THE     BURIAL.  55 

And  now  the  mourner  stands  alone,  beside  her  sleep- 
ing hoy, 

Tis  but  a  moment  —  other  cares  her  heart  and 
hands  employ, 

They  Ye  clothed  him  in  his  burial  dress,  whose  heart 
beats  not  beneath, 

But  still  he  wears  a  smile,  and  looks  all  beautiful  in 
death  ; 

O,  that  corruption's  tainting  touch  should  mar  so  fair 
a  form  ! 

O,  that  the  young  and  beautiful  should  feed  the  slimy- 
worm  ! 

Fair  mourner !  whither  goest  thou  1  why  dost  thou  turn 
away  \ 

How  canst  thou  for  a  moment  leave  that  lovely  sleep- 
ing clay  I 

I  need  not  ask  —  full  well  I  know  that  thou  wouldst 
linger  long, 

And  near  thy  sweet  unconscious  child  these  sacred 
hours  prolong  ; 

But  now  thou  go'st  with  eager  step,  thy  husband's 
heart  to  cheer, 

And  see  !  thou  leav'st  a  loving  friend,  to  watch  beside 
the  bier. 

The  playmate  of  thy  gentle  boy  —  the  dog  he  loved  so 
well  — 

He  lieth  there  beside  that  corse,  a  faithful  sentinel ! 

O,  were  that  noble  beast  endow'd  with  man's  intelli- 
gence, 

And  could  he  speak,  he  'd  tell  his  grief,  with  true 
heart-eloquence  j 


56  THE     BURIAL. 

E'en  now,   methinks,  he   seems  to  speak,  as  mourn* 

fully  he  lies, 
And  looks  into  his  mistress'  face  with  those  confiding 

eyes. 

A  crowd  is  slowly  gathering  within  that  silent  room  ; 
With  eyes  intent  upon  the  ground,  and  sober  steps 

they  come  ; 
Their  errand  is  a  holy  one,  to  follow  to  the  grave 
The  beautiful  young  creature,  whom   nor  tears  nor 

prayers  could  save  ; 
To  place  the  precious  dust  within  its  narrow  cheerless 

home, 
And  with  true  hearted  sympathy,  to  weep  beside  the 

tomb. 

The  mother  leaves  her  station  near  the  chosen  of  her 

heart ; 
How  strange  that  in  her  speaking  eye,  no  tear  is  seen 

to  start  ! 
She  whispers  to  the  friend  she  leaves,  "  O,  watch  my 

husband  well, 
And  if  he  ask  you  where  I  am,  ah  me !  you  need  not 

tell  — 
But  say   that  I  '11  return  again,   on   eager   wings    of 

love  — 
That  I  have  sought  a  resting  place,  within  our  fav'rite 

grove. 

A  resting   place  —  a   resting    place  !     O,  little  did  I 

dream 
When  last  we  wandered  there,  't  would  be  a  resting 

place  for  him  — 


THE     BURIAL. 

For  thee,  my  hoy  !   my  peerless  boy  !   who   gambol'd 

at  my  side  ; 
0,  would  to  God  !  my  son  !  my   son  !  that  I   for  thee 

had  died  ! 
Hush  —  hush  —  my  fond  maternal  heart !  and  let  thy 

treasure  go  ; 
If  thou    couldst   do  it  by  a  word,  wouldst  thou   recall 

him  /  Xo  !  " 

The  strangers  all  have  look'd  their  last  upon  the  clay- 
cold  form, 

So  late  instinct  with  life  and  health,  with  pulses  beat- 
ing warm  ; 

'Tis  covered  now  from  every  eye  —  alas!  'tis  darkly 
hid, 

It  lies  upon  its  narrow  bed,  beneath  the  coffin  lid. 

'Twill  see  no  more  the  sun's  fair  light,  when  night's 
dark  hours  have  fled  — 

It  sleeps  a  long  and  dreamless  sleep,  upon  that  narrow 
bed. 

The  childless  mourner  takes  her  place  amid  that  tear- 
ful throng, 

She  is  the  only  tearless  one,  that  silent  crowd  among  ; 

The  minister  of  God  has  come,  he  bows  his  reverend 
head, 

And  from  the  holy  book  he  reads,  how  "  blessed  are 
the  dead  ; " 

See  joy  upon  the  mother's  face  !  see  rapture  in  her 
eye  ! 

Pale  Death  !  O,  where  is  now  thy  sting  \  where,  Grave  ! 
thy  victory  \ 


58  THE     BURIAL. 

And  from  the  volume  in  his  hands,  O,  list !  and  hear 
him  tell, 

How  once  a  mother  and  a  wife  did  answer,  "  It  is 
well." 

Yes  —  when  the  holy  man  of  God  asked,  "Is  it  well 
with  thee, 

And  with  thy  husband  and  thy  child  1 "  thus  sweetly 
answered  she. 

Now  see  upon  that  mourner's  face,  what  radiant  smiles 
do  steal! 

She  moves  her  lips  —  what  does  she  say  1  She  whis- 
pers, "  It  is  well." 

Blessed  religion  of  the  skies  !  O  blessed  hope  of 
Heaven  ! 

How  canst  thou  heal  the  broken  heart,  by  sore  afflic- 
tions riven ! 

And  thou,  celestial  Comforter  !  thou  Spirit  of  the 
Lord  ! 

Forever  be  thy  holy  name  exalted  and  adored ! 

For  thou  canst  charm  away  the  grief  of  those  who 
are  distress'd, 

And  by  thine  own  sweet  promises  bring  rapture  to  the 
breast. 

There   is  a    strain  of  melody  heard  in  that  western 

wild, 
They   sing    above   the  coffin' d  dust  of  that   beloved 

child ; 
What  voice,  with  clear  yet  plaintive  tone,  now  swells 

upon  the  ear, 
So  full  of  high  wrought  feeling  that  all  others  stop  to 

hear  ? 


THE     BURIAL.  59 

0,  what  must  be  the  joyful  hope  that  thus  to  Heaven 
elini 

—  It  is  that  childless  mourner,  who  thus  clearly,  sweet- 
ly sings  :  — 

"  On  Jordan's  stormy  banks  I  stand, 

And  cast  a  wishful  eye 
To  Canaan's  fair  and  happy  land, 

Where  my  possessions  lie. 
O,  the  transporting  rapt'rous  scene 

That  rises  to  my  sight  ! 
Sweet  fields  array 'd  in  living  green, 

And  rivers  of  delight. 

O'er  all  those  wide  extended  plains 

Shines  one  eternal  day  ; 
There  God  the  Son  forever  reigns, 

And  scatters  night  away. 
No  chilling  winds  nor  pois'nous  breath 

Can  reach  that  blissful  shore, 
Sickness  and  sorroAv,  pain  and  death, 

Are  felt  and  fear'd  no  more. 

When  shall  I  reach  that  happy  place, 

And  be  forever  blest  ? 
When  shall  I  see  my  Father's  face, 

And  in  his  bosom  rest  1 
Fill'd  with  delight,  my  raptured  soul 

Would  here  no  longer  stay  ; 
Though  Jordan's  waves  should  o'er  me  roll, 

Fearless  I  'd  launch  away." 


60  THE     BURIAL. 

With  clasped  hands  and  raised  eyes,  these  words  the 

mother  sang  ; 
In  silv'ry  tones  on  every  ear   the    mournful  music 

rang  ; 
'Twas  mournful  as  the  wind-swept  harp,  that  answers 

to  the  breeze 
Whene'er  it   sighs  complainingly,   among  the    forest 

trees  — 
Or    voice    of  lonely  nightingale,   at  evening  in   the 

wood, 
Warbling  her  soft  and  mournful  plaint,  in  melancholy 

mood. 

Along  the  solitary  road,  with  slow  and  solemn  tread, 
Now  move  the  mourners  who  attend  the  burial  of  the 

dead  ; 
The  stranger  and  the  forest-born,  the  parent  and  the 

child, 
Go  with  him  to  his  early  grave  in  yonder  western 

wild  j 
They  weep  for  her  who  weepeth  not,  for,  ah !  too  well 

they  know 
That  soon,  in  perfect  loneliness,  a  widow's  tears  must 

flow! 

Behold  them  "  on  their  winding  way !  "  how  mourn- 
fully they  move  ! 

And  now  they  've  reach'd  that  resting  place,  in  yon- 
der shady  grove  j 

Not  weary  of  this  tiresome  world,  was  he  who  there 
shall  rest. 


THE    BURIAL.  61 

A  flower  just  newly  blown  he  was,  pluck'd  from  his 

mother's  breast  j 
In    yonder    sweet    sequestered   spot,    where    verdant 

branches  wave, 
The  funeral  train  have  gather'd  now,  beside  an  open 

grave. 

Hark  !  hear  ye    not  that  solemn   voice  !     It   is   the 

voice  of  prayer  ; 
And   reverently  each  listener  his  bowed   head  doth 

bare  ; 
The  youthful  and  the  aged  man,  the  man  in  nature's 

prime, 
All  bow  before  the  King  of  Kings.     Who  would  not 

bow  to  Him  ? 
The  mother  leans  in  silence  there,  upon  a  stranger's 

arm  j 
Her  thoughts  are  with  her  angel  boy,  now  safe  from 

every  harm. 

No  more  she  sees  the  funeral  train  —  the  gentle  and 

the  brave  ; 
Nor  sees  the  little  coffin  laid  beside  the  open  grave  ; 
Her  pale,  pale  face  is  upward  turned,  her  eyes  are 

fixed  on  high, 
A  glory  shineth  on  her  face,  a  rapture  in  her  eye  ! 
Why  stands  she  gazing  up  to  Heaven  \  what  sees  the 

mother  there  1 
She  sees  her   shining  cherub  boy,   in  answer  to  her 

prayer  ! 

5 


62  THE     BURIAL. 

The  prayer  is  ended  —  all  is  still  —  and  now  the  man 
of  God 

(Before  the  ready  spade  has  touch' d  the  cold  expec- 
tant sod,) 

Returns  the  mourners'  thanks  to  all  who  've  lent  their 
kindly  aid 

To  those  on  whom  the  hand  of  God  its  crushing 
weight  has  laid  ; 

In  watching  by  the  sufF'rer's  couch)  through  many  a 
weary  night, 

And  now  in  burying  their  dead — their  darling,  out  of 
sight. 

"Ashes  to  ashes  —  dust  to  dust"  —  with  mournful 
hollow  sound 

The  clods  of  earth  are  falling  on  that  coffin  under 
ground  ; 

Nay,  shudder  not,  nor  turn  away,  with  sudden  heart- 
despair  ! 

Mother  !  'tis  but  his  lifeless  dust,  his  spirit  is  not  there. 

Yes,  smile  again  that  same  sad  smile,  and  raise  thy 
languid  eyes, 

Again  —  O,  mourner !  dost  thou  see  thy  darling  in  the 
skies  % 

In  silence  and  in  thoughtfulness,  away  the  mourners 
move  ; 

Deserted  is  that  peaceful  spot,  within  a  shady  grove. 

Deserted  ?.  No  !  for  all  day  long,  and  through  the  si- 
lent night, 


THE     BURIAL.  (53 

A  friend  is  watching  by  the  boy,  now  buried  out  of 

ht; 
Where    gently    to    the    western    winds    the    verdant 

branches  wave, 
There  prostrate  lies  a  faithful  dog,  beside  anew  made 

grave  ! 

Charleston,  June,  1841. 


THE    FADING   ROSE    BUD 


I  had  a  lovely  Rose  bud, 

Just  opening  beauteously, 
I  placed  it  on  my  bosom, 

And  fair  it  was  to  see  ; 
My  heart  was  proudly  swelling, 

When  every  passer-by 
Admired  my  beauteous  flower, 

That  blossom'd  but  to  die. 

Awhile  it  gaily  flourish' d, 

Nursed  by  affection's  dew, 
And  every  passing  hour, 

More  beautiful  it  grew  ; 
Each  tender  leaf  unfolding, 

A  brilliant  hue  display' d ; 
I  thought  a  brighter  flower 

Was  surely  never  made. 

One  day  I  saw  it  drooping, 
It  leaned  upon  my  breast ; 


THE     F  A  HINT,     ROSE     BUD.  65 

With  paleness  and  with  trembling, 

I  saw  it  sink  to  rest  ; 
I  knew  not  it  was  dying, 

Though  paler  still  it  grew  ; 
I  vainly  strove  to  save  it, 

By  all  that  love  could  do. 

I  ask'd  each  passing  zephyr 

To  breathe  upon  my  flower, 
And  each  reviving  sunbeam 

To  try  its  sovereign  power ; 
I  gave  each  fond  endearment, 

I  water'd  it  with  tears, 
But  every  moment  brought  me 

More  agonizing  fears. 

"  O,  must  I  lose  my  Rose  bud, 

The  only  one  I  have  1 
Is  there  no  kind  physician, 

My  precious  flower  to  save  1  " 
But  vain  was  all  my  praying, 

A  worm  was  at  the  core, 
And,  leaning  on  my  bosom, 

It  withered  more  and  more. 

At  length  I  heard  a  whisper, 

"  O,  suffer  it  to  come 
To  me,  the  only  Savior, 

And  I  will  take  it  home  ; 
There,  in  my  garden  blooming, 

Are  many  buds  like  thine, 
In  bright  cele>tial  beauty, 

Sweet  flowers  !   how  they  shine  !  " 
5* 


66  THE    FADING    ROSE     BUD. 

I  raised  my  tearful  eyelids, 

And  lo  !  a  form  of  light, 
Just  like  the  risen  Savior, 

Then  met  my  wond'ring  sight  ; 
And  while  I  strove  to  tell  him 

That  he  might  take  it  home, 
Again  I  heard  him  saying, 

"  O,  suffer  it  to  come." 

The  glory  round  him  shining 

Spread  heavenly  light  afar, 
And  in  each  hand  extended, 

I  saw  the  fatal  scar  ; 
There  too,  I  saw,  with  anguish, 

The  wound  upon  his  side  ; 
By  these  sad  marks  I  knew  him, 

'Twas  He  — the  Crucified  ! 

With  sad  heartbreaking  sorrow, 

I  kiss'd  my  faded  flower, 
A  long  farewell  I  gave  it, 

That  well  remember' d  hour  ; 
One  dark  and  painful  struggle 

Now  rack'd  my  tortured  mind, 
And  then,  wTith  sighs  and  weeping, 

My  Rose  bud  I  resign'd. 

'Twas  folded  to  his  bosom, 
And,  as  he  placed  it  there, 

I  saw  new  life  returning 
Beneath  his  fost'ring  care  ; 

And  though  I  felt  so  lonely, 

And  throbb'd  my  heart  with  pain, 


THE     FADING     ROSE     BUD.  67 

I  dared  not,  and  I  wish'd  not 
To  call  it  back  again. 

And  then  the  tender  Savior 

Cast  such  a  look  on  me, 
And  said  to  me  so  sweetly, 

"  Fear  not,  I'll  comfort  thee," 
That  I  in  calmness  waited 

To  see  them  take  their  flight, 
And,  in  a  cloud  of  glory, 

They  vanish' d  from  my  sight  ! 

Charleston-,  December  10,  1840. 


THE    DEATH-BED   SCENE.* 


Another  tenant  for  Death's  charnel  house  ! 

Another  victim  for  Death's  banqueting  ! 

Ha !  holds  he  not  a  glorious  carouse  1 

But,  cruel  Death  !  thy  fangs  have  lost  their  sting  ; 

Thou  hast  no  power  to  stay  the  spirit's  wing  ; 

Thou  canst  not  bar  its  entrance  to  the  skies ; 

Thou  canst  but  set  it  free,  thou  ghastly  King  ! 

Thy  touch  doth  man's  best  part  immortalize  ; 

The  deathless  spirit  lives,  when  the  poor  body  dies. 


II. 

Once  more  approach  with  me  the  bed  of  death  j 

Come,  see  once  more  a  fellow  mortal  die  ; 

'Tis  not  a  doleful  sight.     The  dying  breath 

May  pass  through  lips  that  smile  in  ecstasy, 

And  beams  from  Heaven  may  light  the  languid  eye  ; 

With  sudden  burst  the  failing  voice  may  strive 

*  Charles  E.  Dana  died  in  Bloomington,  Iowa  Territory,  August  22, 
1839,  aged  35  years. 

"  Blessed  are  the  dead  who  die  in  the  Lord." 


TEE    DBATH'BSD    8CBNE.  69 

To  join  the  sweet  approaching  melody, 

Heard  when  the  angel  messengers  arrive 

To  bear  the  spirit  hence,  in  Heaven's  own  bliss  to  live. 


III. 

O,  there  are  solemn  hours  which  come  to  all; 

The  bed  of  death  is  aye  a  solemn  place  ; 

To  see  the  saint  asleep  in  Jesus  fall, 

And  leave  the  world  with  glory  on  his  face  — 

Or,  to  suppose  a  mournful,  mournful  case, 

To  see  the  dying  one  with  awful  dread 

Meet  death,  and  call  aloud  for  slighted  grace, 

O,  'tis  most  solemn.     They  who  mourn  the  dead, 

Know  what  religion  is  upon  a  dying  bed. 


IV. 

And  to  the  novice  'tis  a  fearful  scene  — 

The  first  sad  interview  with  Death.     To  see 

The  failure  of  that  wonderful  machine  — 

Our  mortal  frame  ;  when  Death,  pale  enemy ! 

Comes  to  the  prison  door,  and  turns  the  key, 

And  tells  the  soul  it  has  its  freedom  now. 

But  O,  the  pangs  !  the  parting  agony  ! 

The  clammy  sweat  that  beads  the  sufF'rer's  brow 

Doth  a  sad  evidence  of  nature's  anguish  show. 


v. 

Man  lives  to  die,  as  flowers  bloom  to  fade  ; 
Expanded  bloom  is  but  incipient  death  j 


70  THE     DEATH-BED     SCENE. 

The  rose  that  with  the  morning  zephyr  played, 
At  eve  lies  scattered  on  the  ground  beneath ; 
And  flowers  at  eve  that  formed  a  living  wreath, 
When  morning  beameth  bright,  all  drooping  lie, 
Cast  on  the  ground  to  waste  their  fragrant  breath, 
Or  tell  their  story  to  the  passer-by, 
That  they,  once  highly  prized,  are  cast  aside  to  die. 


VI. 

Man,  when  he  dies,  is  buried  out  of  sight, 
But  not  forgotten.     Few  so  friendless  are, 
That  some  bewail  not  their  untimely  blight, 
Always  untimely.     Death  can  scarce  unbar 
The  soul's  dark  prison  gates,  and  send  afar 
Th'  unfetter'd  spirit  to  its  endless  home 
Of  joy  or  woe,  ere  sounds  discordant  jar 
Upon  the  ear,  and  fill  the  heart  with  gloom, 
When  wailing  voices  sound  from  mourners  round  the 
tomb. 


VII. 

We  know  that  we  must  die.     O,  then,  how  strange 

That  he,  whose  life  is  but  a  passing  day, 

Should  live  regardless  of  his  last  great  change ! 

All  earthly  brightness  soon  must  fade  away  5 

All  earthly  things  are  hasting  to  decay  ; 

And  man,  possess'd  of  an  immortal  soul, 

Lives  to  exalt  his  perishing  mortal  clay, 

Nor  listens  to  the  never  ceasing  toll 

Of  hours  he  may  regret  while  endless  ages  roll. 


THE     DEATH-BED     BCSNI.  71 

VIII. 

For  man  is  but  tbc  creature  of  a  day  ; 
Dress'd  foi  a  little  "  pomp  and  circumstance," 
He  figures  for  awhile  in  grand  display, 
Or  on  tbc  stage,  or  in  tbe  mazy   dance  ; 
While  on  tbe  stage,  be  plays  a  vain  romance  ; 
And  while  be  dances,  swift  bis  moments  fly  ! 
0,  tritler,  pause  !  for  even  now,  pcrcbance, 
With  dart  in  band,  grim  Deatb  stands  waiting  by  ; 
For  those   who  thus  bave  lived,  'tis  awful  work  —  to 
die  ! 


IX. 

But  sweet  tbe  dying  chamber,  wbere  tbe  saint 

A  farewell  bids  to  his  mortality ; 

What  tongue  can  tell  —  what  master  hand  can  paijnt 

The  radiant  glories  of  the  upper  sky, 

That  burst  upon  tbe  Christian's  dying  eye  ! 

And  even  when  he  "  dies,  and  gives  no  sign  "  — - 

"When  nature  sinks  beneath  her  agony, 

Then  comes  the  hope  no  fears  can  undermine, 

That  he  who  lived  so  well,  must  die  with  joys  divine. 


As  the  proud  monarch  of  the  forest  falls, 
Even  so  it  lies.     And  thus  th'  immortal  soul, 
When  death  has  freed  it  from  its  prison  walls, 
Shall  hear  the  knell  of  its  probation  toll. 


72  THE     DEATH-BED     SCENE. 

For  while  eternal  ages  ceaseless  roll, 

In  realms  above  —  or  in  the  shades  below, 

No  fears  shall  chill  —  no  flatt'ring  hopes  console  j 

No  change  shall  come,  except  that  bliss  or  woe 

More  blissful  or  more  woful  still  shall  ever  grow. 


XL 

'Tis  sunset.     Fleecy  clouds  of  rosy  light 
With  brilliant  hues  do  tinge  the  western  skies ! 
The  sun  has  left  a  track  of  radiance  bright ! 
Could  mortal  pencil  catch  those  splendid  dyes, 
How  would  the  painter's  art  in  glory  rise  ! 
Changing  —  still  changing !   change  must  come  to  all 
Beneath  the  sun  ;  the  sun  which  swiftly  flies 
On  wheels  of  fire,  enshrouded  in  his  pall, 
From  his  proud  place  on  high,  one  day  himself  shall 
fall. 


XII. 

Slowly  the  tedious  hours  move  along 
Within  the  sick  man's  chamber.     On  his  face 
Has  gathered  paleness.     Pearly  drops  are  hung 
Around  his  pallid  brow  with  mournful  grace, 
By  Death's  moist  finger.     In  that  cold  embrace 
The  chills  of  death  creep  o'er  each  trembling  limb ; 
The  noble  form  lies  nearly  motionless ; 
The  friends  around  flit  by  as  in  a  dream  j 
The  throbbing  heart   grows  cold  ;  the  speaking  eye 
grows  dim. 


T  H  E     D  E  A  T  II  -MED     SC  E  N  IS 


XIII. 

Fever  has  done  the  work.     He  's  conquer' d  now, 
And  driven  from  the  iield.     And  this  may  be, 
This  coldness  —  paleness  —  moisture  on  the  brow, 
May  only  be  the  price  of  victory. 
It  was  a  fierce  encounter.     Forced  to  flee, 
The  dire  disease  exerted  all  his  might 
To  give  the  death  blow  to  his  enemy, 
Ere  from  the  prostrate  form  he  took  his  flight. 
'Twas  needless  —  all  his  strength  was  yielded  in   the 
tight. 


XIV. 

Yet  do  they  strive  to  raise  the  sinking  frame, 
By  every  means  within  the  healer's  art  j 
To  fan  the  dying  embers  to  a  flame, 
And  kindle  life  within  the  cold,  cold  heart; 
The  wife,  with  anxious  care,  seeks  to  impart 
Warmth  to  the  clammy  limbs  ;  and  gen'rous  wine 
And  sav'ry  broths  their  tonic  power  exert ; 
Kind  sympathizing  friends  their  efforts  join, 
And  still  to   Heaven's  high  King  they  look  for  aid 
divine. 


XV. 

'Tis  now  the  midnight's  calm  and  holy  hour, 
When  all  the  world  is  locked  in  sleep's  embrace, 
The  fairy  steals  within  the  tiny  flower, 
The  nightingale  sleeps  in  her  resting  place. 
None  sleep  within  that  chamber,  where  the  face 
6 


14>  THE     DEATH-BED     SCENE. 

Grows  pale  with  watching  — where  the  hand  of  death 
Is  laid  on  one  of  Adam's  sinful  race  — 
Where  still  the  cold  drops  form  a  pearly  wreath, 
And  fainter,  fainter  grows  the  slowly  heaving  breath. 


XVI. 

'Tis  strange  that  smiling  Hope  is  even  now 

Whisp'ring  her  flatt'ries  to  the  young  wife's  heart ! 

She  wipes  the  death-damps  from  her  husband's  brow, 

Which  in  his  dying  anguish  freely  start ; 

But  still  she  cannot  feel  that  they  must  part, 

Nor  see  the  stamp  of  death  upon  his  cheek  ; 

O,  Hope  !  a  skilful  flatterer  thou  art ! 

For  while  the  suff'rer  grows  more  faint,  more  weak, 

Thy  soft  beguiling  voice  doth  words  of  comfort  speak. 


XVII. 

But,  ah !  there  is  no  hope.     The  blow  that  fell 

Upon  his  heart,  when  his  dear  only  son 

Died  in  his  arms  —  has  done  its  work  too  well ; 

The  work  disease  already  had  begun ! 

In  that  sad  hour  death  marked  him  for  his  own ; 

His  feeble  frame,  unequal  to  the  strife 

With  strong  disease  already  undergone, 

Must  yield  itself  to  Death.     O,  gentle  wife  ! 

It  is  too  late  to  call  the  dying  back  to  life. 


XVIII. 

Yes  —  'tis  indeed  too  late.     All,  all  in  vain 
Their  efforts  to  revive  the  dying  one  ; 


THE     P  E  ATH-I1ED     S  C  E  N  B  . 

Why  should  they  seek  the  spirit  to  detain, 

Which  may  be  free  before  the  rising  Ban, 

Bowing  with  angels  near  Jehovah's  throne  1 

\<»  !  rather  say,   'k  God  speed  tlice  to  the  skies, 

Thou  who  hast  fought  the  light  —  the  battle  won! 

Go  —  happy  conqueror  !  go,  take  the  prize  ! 

Go  —  weary  wanderer  !  to  Heaven  and  glory  rise  !  " 


XIX. 

The  hour  has   come  —  and  now  the  dying  man 

.Must  grapple  with  his  mortal  enemy  ; 

But  unseen  hosts,  with  Jesus  in  the  van, 

Pale  sufferer  !  will  surely  fight  for  thee  ! 

'Tis  but  one  struggle  more,  and  thou  art  free ! 

O,  trembling  soul !  thou  'rt  struggling  into  life! 

Yet  there  is  meaning  in  thine  agony  ; 

There  's  reason  for  this  last  heart  rending  strife  ; 

Thou  canst  not  bear  to  leave  thine  own  beloved  wife  ! 


xx. 

God  will  support  he*  in  her  hour  of  need ; 

She  '11  have  no  friend  but  God  to  lean  upon  ; 

He  surely  will  not  break  the  bruised  reed, 

And  bruised  her  heart  will  be  when  thou  art  gone  ! 

She  will  be  left  in  this  dark  world  —  alone, 

Whilst  thou  to  heavenly  glory  shalt  ascend, 

Where  dwelleth  now  thine  own  —  thy  sainted  son  j 

But  He  who  calls  himself  the  widow's  friend 

Will  heal  her  broken  heart,  and  all  her  steps  attend. 


76  THE     DEATH-BED     SCENE. 


XXI. 

Hark !  heard  ye  not  that  voice  of  mournful  sound  1 

Whence  came  that  sudden,  deep,  heart  breaking  sigh  % 

See  !  where  the  childless  mourner  may  be  found 

Waiting  to  see  her  best  beloved  die  ! 

See  there  !  O,  see  the  speechless  suff'rer  lie 

Gazing  upon  the  face  he  loves  so  well ! 

See  fond  affection  beaming  in  his  eye, 

That  eye  where  love  was  ever  wont  to  dwell ! 

See  how  he  vainly  strives  to  say  his  last  farewell ! 

XXII. 

What  trembling  seizes  on  the  stricken  wife  ! 

She  fears  that  they  must  part  —  for  speechless  now 

And  struck  with  death  he  lies ;  - —  the  tide  of  life 

Is  ebbing  fast ;- — the  pulses  faint  and  slow, 

Tell  that  the  blood  has  nearly  ceas'd  to  flow;  — 

There  is  a  strange  sad  look  in  every  eye ;  — 

The  neighbors  stand  aside  and  whisper  low  ;  — 

The  Doctor  comes,  and  with  a  deep  drawn  sigh, 

He  tells  the  startled  wife  that  her  dear  love  must  die. 


XXIII, 

God  help  th'  afflicted  one  !  the  time  had  come 
When  she  must  bid  delusive  hope  farewell ; 
God  help  her  'neath  his  stroke  still  to  be  dumb, 
And  open  not  her  mouth  ;  or  if  she  tell 
Her  tale  of  woe,  to  say  that  all  is  well  ; 


THE     DEATH-I1ED     S  C  E  N  I  .  77 

Amid  her  desolation  and  dismay. 

m  Jehovah's  shelf  ring  arms  to  dwell. 
God  help  thee,  mourner!  now  so  far  away 
From  lather  —  mother  —  all  —  in  thy  distressful  day. 


xxiv. 

Thy  God  is  with  thee.     Mourner!  raise  thy  head, 
And  hear  the  words  of  love  he  speaks  to  thee  ; 

true  thy  earthly  hopes  and  joys  have  fled, 
But  God  will  more  than  child  or  husband  be. 

raises  op  her  drooping  head,  and  see  ! 
She  looks  on  high!   Her  lips  in  prayer  do  move  ! 
She  clasps  her  hands  as  if  in  agony! 
One  pleading  look  she  sends  to  Heaven  above, 
Then  thus  with  falfring  voice  says  to  her  dying  love, 


XXV. 

u  O,  canst  thou  not,  my  husband !  speak  to  me  1 
O.  shall  I  hear  that  well  known  voice  no  more  1 
My  heart  will  break.     O,  God  !  I  cry  to  thee, 
And  in  this  awful  hour  thine  aid  implore. 

calleth  unto  deep  ; — the  waves  do  roar, 
Thy  waves  and  billows,  rushing  o'er  my  head! 
God  of  all  mercy  !   in  this  trying  hour, 
Have  pity  on  the  work  thy  hands  have  made  ; 
May  everlasting  arms  be  underneath  me  spread. 


XXVI. 

O,  speak  once  more,  my  husband !  speak  once  more  ! 
See  !  'tis  thy  Mary  leaning  over  thee ! 


78  THE     DEATH-BED     SCENE. 

Or,  if  to  speak  thy  lips  have  lost  their  power, 

Just  press  my  hand  to  tell  thou  knowest  me. 

'Tis  I,  thy  darling  wife  —  see,  loved  one  !  see  ! 

O,  God !  what  shall  I  do  1  he  gives  no  sign  ; 

O,  that  I  e'er  should  feel  such  agony ! 

And  yet  his  speaking  eye  is  fix'd  on  mine  ; 

He  knows  me  —  Lord  !  for  this  I  bless  thy  love  divine  ! 


XXVII. 

Is  Jesus  precious  to  thy  parting  soul  % 

O,  press  my  hand  if  thou  my  voice  canst  hear, 

For  while  the  waves  of  Jordan  o'er  thee  roll, 

I  '11  speak  of  Jesus  in  thy  dying  ear. 

I  know  that  blessed  name  thy  heart  can  cheer ; 

Jesus  can  surely  make  thy  dying  bed 

Feel  soft  and  sweet  as  downy  pillows  are, 

While  on  his  breast  thou  lean'st  thy  fainting  head, 

To  breathe  away  thy  life,  till  all  thy  life  has  fled. 


XXVIII. 

O,  dearest !  fear  no  evil ;  for  thy  God 

Through  the  dark  vale  thy  falt'ring  feet  will  guide  ; 

Death's  gloomy  shade  will  soon  be  safely  trod, 

With  such  a  kind  companion  by  thy^  side  ; 

Fear  not,  for  he  is  with  thee.     Jordan's  tide 

Can  never  overwhelm  thy  trusting  soul  ; 

Secure  are  they  in  Jesus  who  confide  ; 

Though  storms  arise,  and  raging  billows  roll, 

A  mighty  Friend  is  near,  who  can  the  storm  control. 


THE    D  B  ATH'BED    B  C  E  N  E  .  79 


XXIX. 

0,  thai  I  could,  my  dear,  my  dying  love! 

Go  with  thee  through  the  dark  and  dreary  vale, 

Till  thou  hast  spread  thy  wings  and  soar'd  above, 

Till  saints  and  angels  loud  thy  coming-  hail ! 

But  ah  !  what  could  my  presence  there  availl 

What  could  I  do  to  help  thee  on  thy  way, 

Or  cheer  thee  if  thy  trembling  heart  should  fail  ] 

3,  thy  Captain,  all  thy  foes  can  slay, 
His  rod  and  staff  alone  must  be  thy  strength  and  stay. 


XXX. 

Hark  to  celestial  music  !  hear  it,  love  ! 

The  angel  hosts  are  speeding  from  the  skies, 

To  bear  thy  spirit  to  its  home  above  ! 

I  the  sudden  joy  light  up  thine  eyes! 

I  see  the  beaming  smile  of  glad  surprise ! 

\\  hat  is  it,  darling  !  bursts  upon  thy  view, 

That  makes  thee  smile  in  death's  last  agonies  1 

O,  would  to  God  that  I  the  myst'ry  knew! 

Dear  Savior  !   may  not  I  go  with  my  loved  one  too  1 


XXXI. 

1,  who  have  shared  in  every  grief  or  joy, 

^\  Inch,  at  thy  mandate,  pour'd  its  tide  upon 

The  bosoms  of  my  husband  and  my  boy  ! 

A\  ell,  still  I  '11  share  their  joy  ;  and  near  thy  throne, 

O,  God  be  praised  !  no  grief  will  e'er  be  known. 

No  tear,  my  love  !  will  tremble  in  thine  eye, 


80  THE     DEATH-BED     SCENE. 

As  I  have  seen  it,  when  with  falt'ring  tone, 
And  quiv'ring  lip,  and  deep  convulsive  sigh, 
Thou  'st   told,  with  long  embrace,  thy  boy  and  me, 
'  Good  bye.'  " 


XXXII. 

Then  paus'd  the  wife.     But  ever  and  anon 

She  raised  her  eyes,  and  moved  her  lips  in  prayer, 

Or  laid  her  head  beside  the  dying  one, 

And  whispered,  "  Jesus,  "  in  her  husband's  ear, 

Her  face  was  pale,  but  not  a  single  tear 

Roll'd  down  her  cheek,  or  glisten'd  in  her  eye  5 

Upon  her  Father  God  she  cast  her  care, 

And  prayed  that  she  his  name  might  glorify  ; 

And  thus  he  gave  her  strength  to  see  her  husband  die, 


XXXIII. 

Shorter  and  shorter  grew  the  heaving  breath ; 

Dimmer  and  dimmer  grew  the  failing  eye  ; 

Colder  and  colder  grew  the  pearly  wreath 

Which  seem'd  the  pallid  brow  to  beautify, 

And  sparkled  there  -—a  crown  of  victory  ! 

One  groan  —  one  gasp  —  the  wife  is  left  alone  ! 

She  o'er  him  bends  to  catch  his  parting  sigh, 

Then  speaks  aloud,  with  clear  triumphant  tone, 

"I  wish  thee  joy,  my  love  !  my  darling  Charles!  my 


own 


i  » 


Charleston,  June  13,  1841. 


THE   JOYS    OF   GRIEF. 


It  was  a  quiet  morning.     Skies  were  clear, 

And  hills,  and  vales,  and  woods  kept  jubilee  ; 

All  nature  seem'd  a  lovely  smile  to  wear, 

A  smile  of  peace  and  joy.     In  ecstasy 

Bright  plumaged  warblers  flew  from  tree  to  tree, 

And  sang  their  joy  with  many  a  cheerful  tone  ; 

But  every  heart  was  not  so  full  of  glee  ; 

"Within  that  room  where  death  his  power  had  shown, 

A  pensive  mourner  sat,  in  silence,  and  alone. 


Alone,  yet  not  alone  —  for  loneliness 
The  most  entire  is  often  felt  in  crowds, 
Where  friends  are  ofT'ring  many  a  fond  caress 
To  one,  whose  heart  the  deepest  gloom  enshrouds. 
But  there  are  those  who  'mid  the  darkest  clouds 
Can  smile  the  wTeck  of  earthly  joy  to  see, 
And  such  are  not  alone  ;  the  water  floods 


82  THE     JOYS     OF     GRIEF. 

Have  swept  their  all  away  ;  but  thought  is  free, 
And  thoughts  are  aye  our  most  important  company. 


III. 

Thought  is  not  trammel'd  by  earth's  narrow  bounds  ; 
It  revels  in  the  regions  of  delight ; 
And  oft  when  darkness  all  on  earth  surrounds, 
It  springs  away  to  worlds  where  all  is  bright  ; 
Affliction  comes  t'  assist  this  heavenly  flight ; 
The  sorrowing  soul,  all  tired  of  earth,  can  feed 
On  heavenly  joys  with  quicken'd  appetite  ; 
And  such  a  rich  repast  can  never  need 
The    sick'ning    sweets  of  earth,    that    dire  diseases 
breed. 


IV. 

Affliction  often  proves  the  kindest  friend 
To  mortal  man ;  the  mourning  soul  grows  wise  ; 
All  chast'ning  hath  improvement  for  its  end ; 
Man  looks  to  Heaven  when  earthly  comfort  dies, 
And  most  effectual  prayers  are  breathed  in  sighs. 
The  broken  hearted  never  plead  in  vain  ; 
Their  anguish  hath  a  voice  to  reach  the  skies ; 
O,  would  the  soul  rich  consolation  gain, 
It  cometh  in  the  day  of  suffering  and  pain. 


And  disappointment  lurks  in  every  spot  j 
The  plays  of  life  all  end  in  tragedy  ; 


THE     JOVS     OF     GRIEF.  S3 

Smiles  turn  to  tears,  when  some  dark  counterplot 

Changes  the  scene  from  joy  to  misery. 

There  is  a  power  whose  vast  supremacy 

Doth  our  unwise  appointments  overthrow  ; 

We  plan  —  but  God  appoints  our  destiny, 

And  therefore  all  seems  changeful  here  below  ; 

But  still  from  scene  to  scene  with  newborn  hope  we 


VI. 

The  child  of  sorrow  stands  on  vantage  ground  ; 

It  is  a  paradox  both  strange  and  true, 

That  he,  who   in  affliction's  vale  is  found, 

Dwells  on  the  mount  of  observation  too, 

And  sees  the  world  without  the  dazzling  hue 

Which  bright  prosperity  throws  all  around  : 

He  learns  to/ee/wThat  once  he  only  knew 

From  hearing  other  men,  the  warning  sound, 

That  all  who  lean  on  earth  receive  a  deadly  wound. 


VII. 

How  many  ordeals  erring  man  must  pass, 
While  going  through  his  short  probation  here  ! 
His  road  is  full  of  them  —  and  oft,  alas  ! 
He  quails  before  the  trial  too  severe, 
And  falls  into  temptation  and  a  snare  ; 
Forgetting  where  his  only  safety  li< 
Or  who  will  make  the  trusting  soul  his  care, 
He  downward  bends  to  earth  his  anxious  ey 
And,  trusting  to  himself,  away  from  shelter  flies. 


84>  THE    JOYS     OF     GRIEF. 


VIII. 


But  happy  he  who  passes  on  unharm'd, 
Safe  guarded  in  the  hour  of  seeming  ill ; 
He  ever  finds  the  threat'ning  foe  disarm'd, 
Who,  while  he  looks  to  earth,  looks  heavenward  still. 
The  mental  eye  may  gaze  on  Zion's  hill, 
And  seek  protection  from  a  power  divine  ; 
Though  sorrows  deep  the  heart  with  anguish  fill, 
And  hope  seems  driven  from  its  earthly  shrine  ; 
Yet  beams  from  Heaven  may  still  amid  the  darkness 
shine. 


IX. 

Alone,  yet  not  alone  —  for  cold  and  dead, 

A  manly  form  lies  stretch' d  upon  its  bier  ; 

And  she  whose  hand  supports  her  weary  head, 

Is  gazing  on  her  husband's  features  there. 

How  peaceful  is  the  smile  those  features  wear ! 

One  hand  is  laid  in  his,  so  icy  cold, 

The  other  hidden  by  her  flowing  hair  ; 

And  statue-like  she  sits,  while  scenes  untold 

Rush  on  her  mental  view,  and  glorious  things  unfold. 


No  deep  dejection  sits  upon  her  brow, 
Though  from  her  fond  embrace  her  love  has  fled  ; 
How  can  her  heart  indulge  in  sadness  now, 
When  glory  crowns  her  sainted  husband's  head] 
Why  should  the  bitter  tear  of  grief  be  shed, 
When  he  has  reach'd  his  bright  eternal  home  ^ 


T  II  E     JOYS     O  F     G11IEF. 

O,  why  do  mortals  mourn  the  blessed  dead, 
Who  've  gone  where  grief  and  sin  can  never  come  \ 
Why  do  they   sorely  weep,  and  hang  their  heads  in 
gloom  ( 


XI. 

'Tis  hard  to  part.     But  if  our  dreadful  loss 
Be  gain  unspeakable  to  those  we  mourn, 
Bow  selfish  'tis  to  grieve  !■    O,  is  it  thus 
We  show  our  love  \     Besides,  ye  sad  forlorn ! 
They  are  not  lost  who  from  your  arms  are  torn, 
They  've  only  sooner  reach'd  their  blissful  rest ! 
'Tis  sweet  to  end  a  wearisome  sojourn, 
And  reach  a  wish'd-for  home  —  and  they  are  blest 
Whose  friends  are  safely  housed  where  nothing  can 
molest. 


XII. 

In  those  delightful  realms  of  perfect  bliss, 
The  raptured  spirit  finds  an  endless  home  ; 
And  is  it  well  to  break  your  hearts  for  this  ] 
O,  could  to  earth  the  sainted  spirit  come, 
'T  would  chide  the  mourner  weeping  o'er  the  tomb 
As  though  the  soul  were  chained  in  prison  there  ! 
'T  would  bid  him  lay  aside  his  look  of  gloom, 
And  in  its  place  the  smile  of  triumph  wear  ; 
'T  would  bid  him  hush  the  sigh,  and  wipe  the  starting 
tear  ! 


86  THE     JOYS     OF     GRIEF 


XIII. 


'Twas  not  with  stoical  philosophy, 

She  bore  her  double  grief.     Forgetfulness 

Was  not  its  antidote.     Nor  could  it  be 

Despair  that  sat  upon  her  peaceful  face. 

O,  no !  her  soul  was  made  of  tenderness  ,* 

Nor  could  her  heart  forget  the  joyous  past  j 

Nor  did  despair  her  tranquil  mind  possess  ; 

What  could  it  be  that  o'er  her  features  cast 

A  sweet  expressive  look,  that  seem'd  too  calm  to  last  1 


XIV. 

The  truly  pious  are  most  sensitive 

To  the  delights  of  dear  domestic  love  j 

It  is  religion's  high  prerogative, 

The  tend'rest  feelings  of  the  heart  to  move 

To  delicate  sensations,  far  above 

The  gross,  impure  affections,  cherish'd  oft 

In  earthly  love.     A  double  tie  is  wove 

For  those  whose  hearts  together  soar  aloft ; 

'Tis  God  who  makes  the  heart  pure,  delicate,  and  soft. 


XV. 

What  was  it,  then,  that  spread  a  peaceful  glow 
Upon  that  lonely  mourner's  countenance  — 
She,  who  had  loved  her  child  and  husband  so, 
And  lived  but  in  their  smiles  ?     A  cheerful  glance 


THE     JOYS     OF     GRIEF.  ^7 

rave  to  each  intruder,  who,  by  chance, 
Strny'd  into  that  lone  room.     She  'd  call  them  near, 
And  tell  them  of  a  bright  inheritance, 
And  that  she  knew  her  darling  ones  were  there  ; 
'Twas  this  had  sov'reign  power  the   mourner's  heart 
to  cheer. 


XVI. 

'Twas  confidence  in  Heaven  —  for  there  she  turn'd 
When  M  friend  and  lover  "  failed  her,  and  that  God 
Who  never  yet  the  broken  hearted  spurn'd, 
Supported  her  beneath  the  chast'ning  rod, 
And  sooth' d  her  in  her  childless  widowhood  ! 
All  glory  to  his  name,  wrho  sweetly  spoke, 
And  stilFd  the  raging  of  affliction's  flood! 

I  it  is  to  bear  Jehovah's  stroke 
Like  bullocks  unaccustom'd  to  the  galling  yoke. 

XVII. 

It  well  becomes  frail  man  to  acquiesce 
In  God's  most  wise  and  holy  providence  ; 
Yea,  though  he  bow  his  head  in  sore  distress, 
Borne  down  to  earth  by  sufferings  intense, 
Still  let  him  trust  in  God,  his  sure  defence 
Against  the  rushing  tide  ;  for  sorrow's  flood 
Can  soon  be  stay'd  by  kind  omnipotence. 
Whene'er  on  us  descends  th'  afflictive  rod, 
Weak  hearted  though  we  be,  our  strength  is  found  in 
God. 


THE     JOYS     OF     GRIEF. 


XVIII. 


God  leads  his  children  with  a  gentle  hand, 

Though  often  through  a  gloomy,  rugged  road, 

But  if  they  reach  at  last  the  promised  land, 

What  matter  if  the  paths  their  feet  have  trod  — 

Those  thorny  paths  — be  moistened  with  their  blood  1 

How  gloriously  they  end  their  sad  career  ! 

Their  blood  stain'd  feet  are  wash'd  in  Jordan's  flood, 

Before  the  throne  all  spotless  they  appear, 

And  hush'd  is  every  groan,  and  dried  is  every  tear. 


XIX. 

So  thought  the  mourner,  watching  o'er  her  dead : 

What  glorious  visions  cheer'd  her  solitude ! 

What  heavenly  scenes  their  peaceful  influence  shed, 

As  there  she  sat  in  calm  and  pensive  mood ! 

The  glories  of  the  upper  world  she  view'd ; 

Away  from  earth  on  faith's  glad  wings  she  sped, 

And  saw  in  many  a  bright  beatitude, 

The  shining  mansions  of  the  sainted  dead ; 

And,  deep  in  silent  thought,  thus  to  herself  she  said : 


XX. 

"  If  never  more  the  blessed  sun  should  rise  — 
If  moon  and  stars  in  blackest  gloom  were  seal'd  — 
Though  nature  in  the  gloom  should  sympathize  — 
Though  winds  and  waves  their  utmost  power  reveal'd, 
And  to  the  heart  in  hollow  groans  appeal'd  — 
Though  all  my  friends  were  laid  beneath  the  sod  — 
Though  icy  death  my  blood  had  all  congealed  — 


THE     JOYS     OF     GRIEF. 


Still  would  I  trust  in  thee,  my  Father  God! 
And  bleei  thee  most  of  all  for  thy  chastising-  rod. 


XXI. 

No  —  I  will  not  repine.     It  were  not  well 

To  mourn  for  thee,  my  darling  !     Not  for  thee  ! 

No  —  thou  hast  gone  'mid  perfect  love  to  dwell, 

And  'death  is  swallow"  d  up  in  victory!'^ 

I  wish  thee  joy  —  from  pain  and  sorrow  free, 

While  od  thy  mother  earth  reclines  thy  head  ! 

All  soft  and  peaceful  may  thy  slumbers  be, 

Till  the  last  trump  shall  sound,  when  time  has  fled, 

To  wake  the  sleeping  pulses  of  the  silent  dead  ! 


XXII. 

I  almost  envy  thee,  my  sainted  love, 
Enjoying  Heaven's  sweet  society  ! 
O,  that  I  had  the  pinions  of  a  dove  ! 
How  would  my  eager  spirit  fly  to  thee, 
And  joyful  share  thy  blest  eternity! 
Thou,  who  hast  seen  the  Savior  as  he  is, 
Art  thou  not  filled  with  perfect  ecstasy  1 
Explained  are  all  thy  life's  dark  mysteries, 
Thy    fears,    thy   woes,    thy   pains,  thy   heart's    deep 
agonies. 


xxm. 

Thou  art  at  rest,  my  husband!   on  thy  head 

No  more  the  storm  shall  beat.     Thou  art  of  those 


90  THE     JOYS     OF     GRIEF. 

Whose  works  do  follow  them  —  the  blessed  dead  ! 
O  how  I  long  to  share  thy  soft  repose  — 
To  know  that  I  am  safe  from  inward  foes, 
And  foes  without !     My  heavy  laden  breast 
Shall  bear  no  longer  then  its  weight  of  woes, 
And  I  shall  be  no  more  with  cares  oppress'd ; 
Welcome  the  blissful  hour,  when  I  shall  be  at  rest ! 


XXIV. 

They  say  that  woman  bringeth  happiness 
To  him  she  loves.     I  do  believe  it  true  ; 
I  know,  my  own !  that  I  could  ever  bless 
Thy  heart,  when  to  my  fond  embrace  it  flew. 
Yes  —  yes  —  it  gives  me  comfort  to  review 
The  few  short  years  we  Ve  spent  together  here  ; 
Each  hour  was  fraught  with  gladness  ever  new ; 
'Tis  sweet,  my  love  !  beside  thine  early  bier, 
To  think  thy  noble  heart  'twas  ever  mine  to  cheer. 


XXV. 

But  hearts  like  thine  are  seldom  truly  known ; 

Some  things  too  lofty  are  for  mortal  ken, 

Till  the  dim  eye,  to  earthly  prospects  prone, 

Learns  to  look  far  above  this  misty  fen, 

Where  earth's  rank  vapors  blind  the  eyes  of  men. 

The  truly  noble  ones  are  all  too  few, 

Nor  can  they  breathe  in  earth's  polluted  den  j 

They,  like  the  eagle,  oft  escape  from  view, 

And  soar  aloft  'mid  Heaven's  deep  and  tranquil  blue. 


THE    JOYS     OF     GRIEF.  !U 


XXVI. 


1  joy  to  think,  my  dear,  my  only  love  ! 
Thou  'st  laid  aside  thy  load  of  cumbrous  clay, 
And  wing'd  thy  joyful  flight  to  realms  above, 
To  pure  celestial  worlds  —  away  !  away  ! 
I  see  around  thy  head  bright  glories  play ! 
I  see  thee  clothed  in  robes  of  innocence  ! 
I  see  the  hosts  of  Heaven  in  white  array  ! 
And  can  I  wish  to  call  thy  spirit  thence, 
Inhabitant  of  Heaven  1  thou  pure  intelligence  ? 

XXVII. 

0,  Charles  !   '  thy  love  to  me  was  wonderful, 
Passing  the  love  of  woman.'     In  thine  eyes  — 
Those  dark  blue  eyes  —  those  mirrors  of  thy  soul, 
Were  pictured  feelings  words  would  but  disguise  — 
Pure,  tender,  soul  subduing  sympathies  ! 
Should  ever  slander,  with  its  poison'd  tooth, 
Or  malice,  double  tongued,  against  me  rise, 
I'll  think  of  thee,  whose  kindness  bless'd  my  youth  ; 
I  '11  think  of  all  thy  love,  thy  tenderness,  thy  truth. 

XXVIII. 

Til  plant  the  grave  of  all  my  early  joy 
With  seeds  of  mem'ry,  and  enrich  the  soil 
With  precious  tears,  and  then  I  will  employ 
My  heart  as  gard'ner,  caring  not  for  toil ; 
And  thus  the  gloomy  grave  I  will  despoil 
Of  all  its  gloom,  and  raise  bright  flowers  there, 
To  cheer  me  'mid  life's  wearisome  turmoil ; 


92  THE     JOYS     OF     GRIEF. 

And  so  when  sad  and  overcharged  with  care, 
To  cull  sweet  mem'ry's  flowers  I  will  oft  repair. 


XXIX. 

I  bless  thee,  husband  !  for  thy  tender  love, 
For  all  th'  ecstatic  bliss  'twas  mine  to  know  ; 
I  nestled  in  thy  breast,  a  timid  dove, 
While  my  fond  heart  to  thine  did  firmly  grow. 
I  saw  upon  thy  cheek  love's  ardent  glow, 
And  felt  that  I  was  more  than  others  blest, 
When  such  a  rich  pure  heart  was  mine  ;  but,  O  ! 
I  did  not  dream  that  warm  and  throbbing  breast 
So  soon  would  cease  to  beat  —  so  soon  would  be  at 
rest ! 


XXX. 

They  tell  me  love  has  wings  —  I  know  it  well ; 
But  there's  a  love  implanted  in  the  heart, 
Which  cruel  death  can  never  thence  expel ; 
'Tis  Christian  love.     Death  may  a  moment  part 
Two  faithful  ones,  and  cause  sad  tears  to  start ; 
But  hope  beyond  this  darksome  world  can  see, 
And,  by  the  magic  of  her  soothing  art, 
A  most  effectual  comforter  can  be ; 
So  Hope  and  Memory  by  turns  shall  comfort  me. 


XXXI. 


For  Hope  and  Memory  twin  sisters  are, 
Born  in  a  moment  'mid  the  present  gloom, 
Bringing  their  soft  illusions  from  afar, 


THE     JOT«  OP  OR]  B  F  .  M 

And  cheering  e'en  the  darkness  of  the  tomb. 
Come  to  my  heart,  ye  lovely  sisters,  come  ! 
And  so  my  WOnd'ring  Benses  all  entrance 

With  pictures  of  my  past  and  future  home, 

That  1  may  take  one  life-enduring  glance, 

Nor  cease  till  1  have  gain'd  my  blest  inheritance  ! 


XXXII. 

I  thank  thee,  holy  Father  !  that  I  am 
Immortal.      'Tis  a  cure  for  all  my  woes, 
That  soon  they  will  be  followed  by  the  calm 
Of  Heavens's  tranquil  and  secure  repose, 
When  this  poor  life  has  reach'd  its  blessed  close. 
There  may  be  many  sorrows  more  for  me, 
There  may  arise  stern  unrelenting  foes  ; 
But  I  will  trust  in  Heaven,  and  thither  flee, 
When  I  am  writhing  'neath  opinion's  tyranny. 


XXXIII. 

Who  wrongs  the  widow,  will  be  judged  by  One 
Who  makes  the  widow  his  peculiar  care  ; 
O,  wretched,  wretched  man  !  whose  setting  sun 
Shall  sink  amid  the  clouds  of  dark  despair ! 
In  God's  own  book  the  words  of  truth  declare 
That  man  accurs'd.     Thou,  who  hast  e'er  oppress'd 
The  fatherless  or  widow,  canst  thou  bear 
To  die  with  such  a  stain  upon  thy  breast, 
And    hear  thy  Maker  say,    '  Thou  shalt  not  see  my 
rest  1  ' 


94  THE     JOYS     OF    GRIEF 


XXXIV. 

My  Father  !  all  my  times  are  in  thy  hand  ! 
Though  floods  arise,  thou  'It  bear  me  safely  through, 
And  though  thy  ways  I  cannot  understand, 
Whatever  pleases  thee,  shall  please  me  too. 
Though  thou  with  thorns  shalt  all  my  pathway  strew, 
I  '11  sweetly  rest  when  life's  short  day  is  o'er, 
And  bless  the  hand  which  me  to  Heaven  drew  ; 
Then  far  above  this  weary  world  I  '11  soar, 
And  through  eternity  I  '11  triumph  and  adore. 


XXXV. 

When  nights  of  weariness  do  come  to  me, 

They  are  appointed  by  my  sov'reign  friend, 

To  cure  me  of  this  world's  idolatry, 

And  thus  to  Heaven  my  aspirations  send, 

And  with  my  tears  sweet  expectations  blend. 

So  when  I  lie  and  long  for  morning's  dawn, 

And  vainly  wish  the  painful  night  would  end, 

And  sadly  cry,  with  many  a  plaintive  moan, 

1  0,  when  shall  I  arise,  and  this  sad  night  be  gone  1 ' 


XXXVI. 

I  '11  think  of  Heaven,  where  night  shall  be  no  more, 
Where  not  one  tear  shall  gather  in  mine  eye, 
Where  weariness  and  pain  shall  all  be  o'er, 
And  I,  with  seraph  wings,  shall  swiftly  fly 
With  willing  speed,  my  God  to  glorify, 


THE     JOYS     OF     G  R  I  I".  P  , 

And  execute  liis  blessed  sovereign  will. 

Welcome  the  joyful  hour  when  I  shall  die  ! 
Die  \  No  !  I  then  shall  live.  On  Zion's  hill 
I  shall  forever   dwell,  and  fear  no  future  ill. 


XXXVII. 

My  rest  will  come  ere  long.     O,  when  I  sleep 

My  last  long  sleep  beneath  the  cold  damp  sod, 

Parents  and  friends  !  I  pray  ye  not  to  weep 

For  one  whose  feet  a  thorny  path  have  trod, 

Then  shelterM  in  the  bosom  of  her  God  ! 

I  Ye  had  sore  trial  of  each  tender  limb, 

In  such  a  rough  and  thorn-besprinkled  road  ; 

O,  then,  to  weep  for  me  would  be  a  crime, 

When  I  have  safely  fled  beyond  the  bounds  of  time  ! 


XXXVIII. 

Till  then  I  '11  patient  be.     It  is  not  best 

To  bosom  sorrow,  or  to  nourish  grief ; 

No  !  let  me  bear  my  heavy  laden  breast 

Where  only  suff'ring  hearts  can  find  relief — 

To  Him  who  was  of  sufferers  the  chief! 

He  numbers  every  hair  upon  my  head, 

He  clothes  the  flower,  he  notes  the  falling  leaf  ; 

And  will  he,  now  my  dearest  ones  are  dead, 

Leave  me  in  sorrow's  night  my  burning  tears  to  shed  \ 

XXXIX. 

No  —  no  —  it  cannot  be.     He  shows  his  power. 
And  who  can  hinder  him  \     He  takes  away 


96  THE     JOYS     OF     GRIEF. 

Man's  glory  and  his  pride  in  one  short  hour, 

And,  when  he  chooses,  hides  each  cheering  ray 

Of  earthly  joy,  that  o'er  his  path  did  play. 

But  while  his  hand  thus  smites,  his  heart  is  love 

He  sends  the  cloudy,  wintry,  stormy  day, 

To  make  us  pause  awhile,  and  look  above, 

And  by  adversity,  the  suff'rer's  heart  to  prove. 


XL. 

How  sweet  the  names  my  heavenly  Father  bears ! 

1  God  of  all  comfort !  '  O,  the  soothing  sound  ! 

1  Father  of  mercies  ! '  Yes  !  I  '11  dry  my  tears, 

And  go  where  comfort  —  mercy  —  can  be  found. 

What  though  my  love  lies  cold  beneath  the  ground  1 

'Tis  but  his  mortal  part.     His  deathless  soul 

Lives  and  rejoices  where  pure  joys  abound  ; 

He  ran  his  race,  and  reach'd  th'  immortal  goal, 

And  ne'er  shall  sorrow  more,  while  countless  ages  roll. 


XLI. 

Husband,  sweet  husband  !  where,  O,  where  art  thou  ? 

Art  thou  not  near  me,  whispering  peaceful  things  1 

Do  I  not  hear  thy  spirit-accents  now, 

And  feel  the  waving  of  thy  spirit-wings, 

Cooling  my  burning  heart,  where  sorrow's  stings 

Would  rankle,  were  it  not  for  Heaven  and  thee  % 

It  must  be  so.     My  eager  spirit  springs 

To  meet  thee,  love  !     'Tis  thy  sweet  task  to  be 

A  ministering  angel,  sent  to  comfort  me  !  " 


THE     JOYS     OF     G  R  I  E  F  . 
XLII. 

Twas  thus  the  mourner  mused  from  hour  to  hour, 
Beside  her  loved  one  laid  upon  his  bier; 
She  strewM  his  corse  with  many  a  fragrant  flower, 
And  kiss'd  his  cheek,  and  stroked  his  glossy  hair. 
You  would  have  thought  her  love  was  sleeping  there, 
And  she  was  watching  o'er  him  —  such  a  smile 
on  his  lip,  and  wreathed  his  forehead  fair; 
But  he  is  dead  —  and  in  a  little  while 
The  damp  and  teeming  earth  that  forehead  must  de- 
file! 

Charleston,  June  22,  18-A1. 

3 


THE    SECOND   BURIAL. 


All-conqu'ring  Love ! 
Thou  niak'st  the  heart  of  gentle  woman  strong  ! 
All-cheering  Faith !  thou  hast  a  magic  power 
To  win  the  soul  away  from  haggard  grief! 
On  the  pure  surface  of  the  calm  blue  sky, 
Thou  paintest  Heaven's  glories  with  a  touch 
Surpassing  mortal  genius,  and  with  art 
Most  wonderful,  dost  lure  the  tearful  eye 
Away  from  the  attractions  of  the  tomb, 
Where  earthly  hopes  and  joys  lie  sepulchred. 
What  sweet  amazement  seizes  on  the  soul, 
When  these  celestial  visions  greet  the  eye ! 
The  ambient  air  seems  full  of  harmony, 
As  though  ten  thousand  angel  visiters 
Were  hov'ring  round  th'  afflicted  one,  to  cheer 
With  Heaven's  softest,  sweetest  melodies, 
Her  mourning  heart. 

The  evening  hour  had  thrown 
Dark  length'ning  shadows  on  the  verdant  earth, 
And  men  had  gather'd  to  the  burial. 


THE     SECOND    BURIAL.  "'.» 

Women  were  there,  with  hearts  of  sympathy 

For  the  bereaved  ;  and  rosy  children  too 
(lazed  up  into  the  mourner's  marble  face, 
With  troubled  looks  of  awe,  and  wonder'd  why 
She  was  alone,  and  where  the  lovely  boy 
Whom  they  had  ever  seen  beside  her  —  was. 
The  mother  brought  her  babe,  and  when  it  cried, 
AlarmVl  at  her  unwonted  gravity, 
She  press'd  it  closer  to  her  swelling  breast, 
And  hush'd  its  plaintive  voice  —  or  stole  away, 

ring  *t  would  wring  the  stricken  mother's  heart 
To  hear  a  baby  cry.     So  delicate 
And  tender  hearted  is  true  sympathy  ! 

But  she  was  dead  to  every  earthly  sound  ; 
Her  senses  were  in  Heaven.     Her  last  long  look, 
A  mournful  look  of  thrilling  tenderness, 
She  had  just  taken  of  the  silent  form 
Of  him  she  loved  ;  and  now  her  eyes  were  fix'd 
On  that  same  form  reanimate  in  Heaven, 
Cloth'd  in  celestial  splendors.     Anxiously 
Th"  assembled  crowd  gazed  on  the  mourner's  face, 
And  look'd  to  see  her  hang  her  fainting  head, 
Whene'er  they  closed  the  coffin  lid  —  but,  ah  ! 
They  did  not  know  the  superhuman  power 
That  was  at  work  within  her.     It  was  strange, 
But  it  was  true,  that  she  was  seen  to  smile 
When  she  was  ask'd  if  she  would  look  once  more 
Upon  her  husband's  corse,  ere  it  was  hid 
Forever  from  her  view.     Yes,  she  did  smile 
trange  unearthly  smile,  and  softly  said, 
M  I  will  not  look  again."     Then  did  they  place 
The  envious  cover  o'er  that  noble  form, 


100  THE     SECOND     BURIAL. 

And  screw  it  firmly  down.     Yet  still  she  sat 
And  gently  rock'd  her  in  the  cushion'd  chair, 
And  her  closed  eyes  did  shed  no  tear.     Her  hands 
All  peacefully  were  clasped  upon  her  knee, 
Nor  did  the  fingers  tremble. 

All  was  still 
Within  that  solemn  chamber  of  the  dead. 
They  waited  for  the  minister  of  God, 
To  do  the  last  sad  offices  of  earth ) 
And  yet  he  came  not.     Moments  passM  away, 
Until  an  hour  had  mark'd.  its  silent  flight, 
With  longer,  darker  shadows  on  the  ground. 
'Twas  time  they  had  convey'd,  with  solemn  tread, 
The  body  to  its  home,  ere  night  should  draw 
Her  curtain  round  the  world.     Where  linger'd  he 
Who  should  be  at  the  burial  of  the  dead  1 
He  comes  not  —  and  they  fear  he  will  not  come. 

Then  one  who  knew  and  loved  the  dear  deceas'd, 

An  elder  in  the  church  of  which  he  was 

A  member,  forward  came,  and  with  a  voice 

All  tremulous  from  deep  emotion,  read 

A  chapter  from  the  holy  word  of  God. 

'Twas  from  Corinthians,  where  th'  apostle  Paul 

Speaks  of  the  resurrection  from  the  dead, 

In  language  borrowed  from  the  court  of  Heaven. 

The  solemn  deep  toned  voice  of  him  who  read, 

Reach' d  every  ear,  and  thrill'd  to  every  heart. 

These  were  the  words  :  "  And  how  say  some  of  you 

There  is  no  resurrection  of  the  dead  % 

For  if  there  be  no  resurrection,  then 

Is  Christ  not  ris'n  ;  and  if  Christ  be  not  ris'n, 


THE     SECOND     BURIAL.  101 

Then  is  our  preaching  vain,  —  and  faith  is  vain  ; 

And  we  are  found  false  witnesses  of  God, 

Because  that  we  have  testified  of  God, 

Thai  he  did  raise  up  Christ  ;  —  whom  if  the  dead 

Rise  not,  he  raised  not  up.     For  if  the  dead 

Rise  not.   Christ    is  not  raised  ;  and  if  Christ  be  not 

raised, 
Your  faith  is  vain,  and  ye  are  in  your  sins. 
And  also  they  which  are  asleep  in  Christ 
Are  perish'd.     If  in  this  sad  life  alone 
A\  e  have  a  hope  in  Christ,  we  are  of  all 
Most  miserable  men.     Bat  now  the  Lord 
I<  risen  from  the  dead,  and  has  become 
First  fruits  of  them  that  slept.     For  since  by  man 
Came  death,  by  man  has  also  come 
The  resurrection  of  the  dead.     For  as 
In  Adam  all  men  die,  even  so  in  Christ 
Shall  all  be  made  alive.     But  every  man 
In  his  own  order  ;  Christ  the  earliest  fruits, 
And  afterwards  they  that  belong  to  Christ, 
At  his  last  coming.     And  then  comes  the  end, 
When  he  shall  have  deliverd  up  to  God 
The  kingdom  —  when  all  rule,  and  power, 
And  all  authority,  he  shall  put  down. 
For  he  must  reign  till  all  his  enemies 
Under  his  feet  are  laid.     The  enemy 

That  last  of  all  shall  be  destroy'd,  is  Death. 

*         *         *         *         * 

All  flesh  is  not  the  same.     There  is  one  kind 
Of  flesh,  of  men;  another  flesh  of  beasts  j 
Another  flesh  of  fishes  ;  and  of  birds  : 
There  are  celestial  bodies  ;  and  there  are 
Terrestrial ;  but  their  glories  are  not  one  : 


102  THE     SECOND     BURIAL. 

There  also  is  one  glory  of  the  sun  ; 

One  glory  of  the  moon  ;  one  of  the  stars  ; 

T?or  one  star  difF'reth  from  another  star. 

So  is  the  resurrection  of  the  dead  ; 

'Tis  in  corruption  sown,  but  it  is  raised 

In  incorruption  j  in  dishonor  sown, 

'Tis  raised  in  glory  ;  'tis  in  weakness  sown, 

'Tis  raised  in  power  ;  a  body  natural 

'Tis  sown,  'tis  raised  a  spiritual  one. 

For  it  is  written  thus  ;  Adam,  the  first, 

Was  made  a  living  soul ;  Adam,  the  last, 

Was  made  a  quick'ning  spirit.     Of  the  earth 

Earthy,  the  first  man  is  ;  the  second  man, 

He  is  the  Lord  from  Heaven.     As  we  have  borne 

The  image  of  the  earthly,  we  shall  bear 

The  image  of  the  heavenly.     Now,  behold  ! 

A  mystery  I  show  ;  all  shall  not  sleep  ; 

But  we  shall  all  be  chang'd,  at  the  last  trump, 

In  a  moment  —  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye. 

The  trump  shall  sound  —  the  dead  shall  all  be  rais'd. 

Then  incorruptible  ;  and  we  shall  all 

Be  quickly  changed.     For  this  corruptible 

Must  put  on  incorruption,  and  this  mortal 

Put  on  immortality.     So  when 

Corruptible  has  put  on  incorruption  — 

And  mortal  put  on  immortality, 

Then  what  is  written  shall  be  brought  to  pass, 

That  death  is  swallow'd  up  in  victory. 

O,  Death !  where  is  thy  sting  1     O,  Grave !  where  is 
Thy  victory  1     The  sting  of  death  is  sin ; 


THE     SEC  0  N  D    B  0  B  1 1L.  103 

The  strength  of  sin,  the  law  ;  but  unto  God 

Be  thanks  who  grreth  us  the  victory, 

Through  Jesus  Christ  our  Lord !  "     Amen !     Amen  ! 

What  glorious  words  are  these  !     The  Bible  speaks 
To  souls  that  are  afflicted  with  a  force 
And  emphasis  unknown  before.     The  wax 
When  duly  soften'd,  will  receive  and  keep 
The  beautiful  impression  —  and  the  heart 
Tried  in  affliction's  furnace,  will  be  made 
To  picture  the  refiner's  countenance, 
Reflected  sweetly  there. 

The  mourner  heard 
These  things,  with  joy  unspeakable,  and  peace 
That  passeth  understanding.     Every  word 
Was  music  to  her  ear,  and  healing  balm 
To  her  poor  bleeding  heart.     The  drowning  man 
Will  grasp  for  life  at  every  floating  straw; 
And  so  the  mourner,  of  all  joy  bereft, 
Will  catch  at  every  hope  the  gospel  gives. 

The  reader  closed  the  book,  and  sat  him  down  ; 

And  then  the  mourner  call'd  him  to  her  side 

With  silent  beckon.     In  her  hand  she  held 

A  little  volume  —  'twas  the  same  sweet  book 

Had  been  her  kind  companion  all  the  day  ; 

It  was  the  hymn  book  given  her  by  him 

Who  now  lay  coffin'd  there.     She  pointed  out 

A  certain  hymn,  and  begg'd  it  might  be  sung ; 

For  at  her  darling  sister's  distant  grave, 

In  dear  New  Haven,  it  was  sweetly  sung 

But  two  short  years  before.     The  young  and  fair, 


104?  THE     SECOND     BURIAL. 

The  brave  and  beautiful,  had  chanted  it 

Around  her  early  grave3  with  swelling  hearts, 

And  many  a  falling  tear.     F&r  she  was  loved 

By  all  who  knew  her,  and  they  knew  her  well 

In  sweet  New  Haven.     'Twas  a  favorite  place 

Where  these  two  sisters  loved  to  walk  alone 

And  commune  with  the  dead  ;  for  very  near 

The  sacred  spot  where  now  her  form  was  laid, 

Two  much  loved  friends  were  sleeping  side  by  side — 

The  gifted  Martha,  and  the  lovely  Jane.* 

And  he  who  once  had  led  her  ardent  mind 

In  search  of  knowledge!  —  he  too  slept  within 

That  peaceful  grave  yard.     O,  he  was  a  man 

Whose  like  is  seldom  seen  on  earth ;  all,  all 

Who  ever  knew  him  will  his  name  revere, 

Till  they  shall  meet  him  in  the  realms  of  bliss, 

Who  ever  sought  to  lead  them  to  the  skies. 

Peace  to  the  mem'ry  of  the  holy  man  ! 

A  father  and  a  mother  weeping  stood 

Beside  her  grave  —  one  sister  on  a  bed 

Of  sickness  lay,  not  very  far  remote  ; 

And  one  was  at  her  distant  southern  home  : 

O,  she  had  yet  to  hear  the  sad,  sad  news ! 

An  only  brother,  very  near  in  age, 

Who  loved  her  as  himself—  and  more  j  he  stood 

With  folded  arms  and  drooping  head,  and  saw 

*  Martha  Day,  daughter  of  President  Day,  of  Yale  College  :  and 
Jane  L.  Floyd,  daughter  of  the  late  Rev.  Laomi  Floyd,  and  adopt- 
ed daughter  of  the  Rev.  Dr.  Palmer,  of  Charleston  j  who  died  in  New 
Haven,  where  she  was  pursuing  her  studies. 

f  The  Rev.  Claudius  Herrick,  long  known  and  celebrated  as  the 
instructor  of  young  ladies  in  New  Haven. 


THE     SECOND     BVSIAL.  105 

His  darling  >i^tor  hidden  from  liis  new 

By  the  dark  envious  grave.     But  lie  has  gone 

To  meet  her  in  her  everlasting  home  ! 

In  distant  Alabama's  friendly  soil, 

He  found  a  grave  !     They  were  too  pure  for  earth  ; 

And  'tis  not  saying  they  were  wholly  pace, 

To  say  thus  much  —  for  when  th'  immortal  soul 

Has  bathed  itself  so  freely  in  the  blood 

Of  Jesus,  that  its  stains  of  sin  grow  pale, 

God  always  calls  the  spirit  to  himself, 

To  take  its  station  near  his  own  bright  throne. 

ild  not  breathe  the  atmosphere  of  earth 
When  it  is  purified  and  fit  for  Heaven. 
But  while  it  lives  on  earth  'tis  human  still, 
And  therefore  sinful. 

Round  the  open  grave 
Of  her  who  died  so  far  away  from  home, 
How  grateful  to  the  mourning  bosoms  there, 
The  friendly  sympathy  of  old  and  young  ! 
Cold  hearted  and  unfriendly  call  ye  these  — 
The  natives  of  the  north  \     It  is  not  so  ; 
My  fellow  Southrons  !     If  the  hand  of  God 
Shall  ever  lay  you  low,  when  far  from  home, 
Among  your  breth'ren  of  the  frozen  north, 
I  know,  dear  friends  !  I  know  ye  '11  see  them  shed 
With  the  dejected  mourner,  tear  for  tear. 

Sweetly  the  voices  round  that  younor  girl's  grave, 

PeaFd  forth  a  solemn  dinre.     Now  swell'd  it  high 

In  lofty  strains  ;  and  now  in  cadence  soft, 

It  seem'd  to  die  pway  upon  the  ear ; 

Then  would  it  swell  again,  and  reach  the  skies, 


106  THE    SECOND     BURIAL. 

And  seem  to  mingle  with  the  music  there. 

Now  where  the  Mississippi  proudly  roll'd 

Its  world  of  waters  to  the  distant  sea, 

That  dirge  was  sung  again.     The  words  were  these  : 

"  Unveil  thy  bosom,  faithful  tomb  ! 
Take  this  new  treasure  to  thy  trust  ; 
And  give  these  sacred  relics  room 
To  slumber  in  the  silent  dust. 

No  pain,  nor  grief,  nor  anxious  fear 
Invades  thy  bounds  ;  no  mortal  woes 
Can  reach  the  lowly  sleeper  here, 
While  angels  watch  the  soft  repose. 

So  Jesus  slept ;  God's  dying  Son 
Pass'd  through  the  grave,  and  bless'd  the  bed  : 
Rest  here,  blest  saint !  till  from  his  throne 
The  morning  break,  and  pierce  the  shade. 

Break  from  his  throne,  illustrious  morn  ! 
Attend,  O,  earth,  his  sov'reign  word  ; 
Restore  thy  trust ;  a  glorious  form 
Shall  then  arise  to  meet  the  Lord." 

Again  that  childless  widow  raised  her  voice, 
And  sang  the  funeral  song.     The  strength  she  had 
Was  not  her  own  —  it  came  from  God  himself. 
For  like  a  vine  deprived  of  its  support, 
She  shot  new  tendrils  forth,  and  clasp'd  them  round 
Th'  almighty  arm  of  God,  reach'd  down  from  Heaven 
For  her  relief  ;  and  that  almighty  arm 
Rais'd  her  above  the  troubles  of  the  earth. 


THE     SECOND    BURIAL.  107 

They  little  know  what  solid  comfort   is. 

Who  ne'er  bare  turnM  to  Heaven  in  sorrow's  hour! 

Thrice  happy  man,  corrected  of  the  Lord! 

Whose   roots  are  torn  from  earth's  most    wretched 

soil, 
Whene'er  they  shoot  their  clinging  fibres  down. 
O,  let  me  ever  be  uprooted  thus! 
If  I  be  watered  with  the  dews  of  Heaven, 
I  still  shall  flourish  in  celestial  green, 
And  bear  the  blessed  fruits  of  holiness. 

— with  anfalt'ring  voice  the  mourner  sang, 
While  others  gazed  in  pure  astonishment, 
And  thought  'twas  "  passing  strange." 

The  music  ceas'd, 
And  all  prepared  to  follow  to  the  grave 
Him  who  had  won  their  hearts.     The  twilight  hour 

beautiful  indeed.     The  setting  sun 
Linger' d  awhile  upon  his  ruddy  throne 
Of  burnish'd  clouds,  ere  he  sank  down  to  rest, 
To  shed  his  parting  beams  upon  the  grave 
Of  him  on  whom  he  ever  loved  to  shine. 
The  river  rolTd  more  silently  along 
Than  was  its  wont  ;  —  all  nature  seem'd  to  pause 
T"  attend  that  honor'd  burial.     Silently, 
With  ling'ring  feet,  the  long  procession  moved 
To  that  same  resting  place  within  a  grove, 
Where  they  had  follow'd  to  his  peaceful  home 
The  young  and  lovely  boy,  two  days  before. 

But  who  are  these  approaching  from  afar, 

And  urging  on  their  weary  steeds  \     They  seem 

In  haste  to  meet  the  mournful  retinue 


108  THE     SECOND    BURIAL. 

Of  him  who  rides  within  the  sabled  hearse. 

They  meet  —  dismount  —  advance  with  tott'ring  steps, 

And  take  their  station  at  the  mourner's  side, 

Now  near  her  husband's  grave.     Who,  who  are  they  1 

The  minister,  and  his  beloved  wife  ; 

Both  sick,  both  weary,  pale,  and  sorrowful ; 

They  each  had  risen  from  the  couch  of  pain, 

And  come  with  trembling  haste,  four  miles  or  more. 

Nor  did  they  come  too  late  ;  again  in  prayer 
The  preacher  rais'd  his  voice  ;  its  solemn  tones 
Awaked  the  evening  echoes  ;  hollow  sounds 
They  were,  for  he  was  sick  ;  but  in  that  hour 
The  spirit  triumph'd  o'er  the  fainting  frame. 
It  was  a  melting  scene.     Long  hoary  hairs 
Were  waving  in  the  breeze,  while  old  and  young 
Again  uncover'd  their  respectful  heads, 
When  prayer  was  made  to  God  ;  -and  in  that  hour, 
When  stood  the  mourner  at  her  husband's  grave, 
Quite  near  the  little  mound  that  cover'd  o'er 
Her  boy  so  beautiful,  again  she  rais'd 
Her  beaming  face  to  Heaven,  and,  all  entranc'd 
With  visions  of  celestial  glory  —  smiled  ! 
The  parting  beams  of  the  descending  sun 
Play'd  on  her  cheek,  and  on  her  pallid  brow, 
And  kiss'd  her  parting  lips  ;  they  seem'd  a  sign 
From  Heaven  —  a  sweet  love  token  from  the  skies. 

But  hark  !  what  noise  is  that,  that  strangely  breaks 

Upon  the  sacred  stillness  of  the  scene  1 

All  eyes  are  turn'd  to  where  the  sound  is  heard, 

Nor  is  it  far  away.     Affecting  sight ! 

Beside  that  little  mound,  with  mournful  whine, 


TH  B  N  D    BURIAL.  108 

There  lies  the  dog;  he  struggles  in  his  grief 
To  tear  away  the  heavy  covering 
That  hides  his  little  master  from  his  sight ! 
With  frantic  strength  he  scratches  on  the  earth  ! 
The  faithful  creature  sees  one  open  grave  ; 
Why  uot  the  other  too  \     "Why  keep  it  closed  — 
That  grave  that  hides  the  form  he  dearly  loves  \ 
Ah,  noble  friend !  thou 'It  see  that  form  no  more  ! 

Again  the  minister  returneth  thanks 

To  those  around,  for  all  their  kindness  shown ; 

in  upon  the  buried  coffin,  fall 
The  heavy  clods  of  earth,  with  hollow  sound ; 
Again  the  mourner,  shudd'ring,  turns  away, 
And  leaves  the  burial  place  with  ling'ring  step. 

Go  with  her  to  the  now  deserted  room, 
Where  she  must  dwell  in  grief  and  loneliness. 
She  slowly  enters  there,  and  casts  around 
A  sad,  despairing  glance.     O,  could  she  weep, 
How  would  the  briny  waters  burst  their  bounds, 
And  pour  in  torrents  down  her  cheeks!     But  no, 
She  cannot  weep.     The  fountain  of  her  tears 
Seems  turn'd  into  a  flood  of  burning  fire, 
To  scorch  her  fever' d  brain.     She  looks  around  ; 
There  hangs  the  little  dress  her  boy  last  wore, 
Just  as  she  took  it  from  him  ;  pantaloons, 
And  frock,  and  shoes,  and  shining  leather  belt, 
All  ready  for  the  wearer.     There  is,  too, 
His  little  hat  of  leghorn,  temptingly 
Laid  by  his  long  sleeved  apron,  ready  for 
His  gamboling  upon  the  sunny  lawn. 
9 


110  THE    SECOND     BURIAL. 

There  hangs  the  coat  her  husband  wore,  when  last 
He  walk'd  with  her,  and  with  his  little  boy. 
There  hangs  his  hat,  dress'd  with  its  weed  of  crape, 
Worn  for  her  brother,  who  had  died  before. 
To  each  of  these  she  goes,  and  lays  her  hand 
Upon  them  —  takes  them  down,  and  fancies  how 
They  look'd  upon  the  wearer  —  kisses  them  — 
The  dress,  the  hat,  the  belt,  the  coat,  the  shoes  — 
And  then  returns  them  to  their  places.     O, 
For  tears !  for  sweet,  sweet   tears !     They  will  not 
come. 

There  in  the  corner  stands  the  instrument 
On  which  her  husband  loved  at  eve  to  play  ; 
Yes,  at  that  very  hour — that  twilight  hour, 
How  often  would  the  viol's  tones  be  heard 
To  mingle  with  her  voice  in  sacred  song  ! 
She  thither  goes,  and  takes  her  boy's  low  chair, 
And  sits  beside  it.     See!  she  lays  her  head 
Upon  the  very  spot  his  hand  would  touch 
If  he  were  playing  it.     See  !  she  kisses  it, 
And  clasps  her  arms  around  the  slender  neck, 
And  hugs  it  to  her  breast !     It  will  not  do  — 
Still,  still  she  cannot  weep. 

The  violin 
Is  hanging  silent  in  its  'custom'd  place  ; 
'Twas  with  the  violin  he  used  to  lull 
His  boy  to  sleep,  when,  wearied  with  his  play, 
His  head  was  on  its  evening  pillow  laid. 
The  boy  would  warble,  as  the  father  play'd, 
A  drowsy  song,  then  silent  sink  to  sleep. 


THE     SECOND     BURIAL.  Ill 

What  visions  must  have  visited  his  couch, 
Thus  wooM  to  peaceful  slumbers  !     On  the  chair 
She  stands,  and  reaches  it  from  its  high  place, 
And  covers  it  with  kisses  !  — Still  no  tears. 

Who  comes  into  that  room  with  stealthy  tread  1  — 

That  room  m  sacred  to  the  mourner,  who  1 

It  is  a  good  old  lady,  come  to  see 

What  means  the  stillness  in  that  mournful  room. 

Long  had  she  knock' d  without  —  but,  dead  to  all 

Save  her  own  grief,  the  mourner  did  not  hear. 

At  last  she  ventured  in,  and  reaching  forth 

Her  venerable  arms,  she  clasp'd  them  round 

The  mourner,  sobbing  out  —  "  My  poor  dear  child !  " 

Lo  !  at  these  magic  words  of  pity,  she 

Who  could  not  weep  before,  is  weeping  now 

Upon  the  dear  old  lady's  bosom.     Yes ! 

Her  arms  are  tightly  clasp'd  around  her  neck, 

As  though  she  were  her  mother ;  and  her  head 

Has  sunk  upon  that  sympathizing  breast  j 

And  when  at  length  she  raises  it  again, 

There  beams  a  tranquil  smile  upon  her  face, 

Like  the  bright  rainbow  shining  after  rain! 

How  sweet  is  sympathy  !     Each  heart  doth  know 

own  deep  bitterness  ;  but  many  weigh 
The  nrrief  of  others  in  false  balances, 
And  blame  them  where  they  ought  to  sympathize. 
When  the  sharp  deadly  arrows  of  the  Lord 
Are  drinking  up  the  spirit,  O,  'tis  hard 
To  meet  with  "  miserable  comforters." 
To  him  that  is  afflicted,  pity  show  ; 


112  THE    SECOND     BURIAL. 

Ye,  who  enjoy  the  smiles  of  Providence  ! 

Your  turn  may  come  ;  then  who  will  pity  you, 

If  ever  you  have  breath' d  a  word  unkind 

To  one  whose  heart  was  breaking  1     God  will  laugh 

At  your  calamity,  and  mock  at  all  your  fear  ! 

Charleston,  June  26,  1841. 


A    VOICE    FROM  HEAVEN 


•'•'  And  one  of  the  elders  said  unto  me, l  Weep  not.'  " 

St.  John. 

O,  -\veep  not  in  thy  lonely  hours, 

My  Alary  !   weep  not  so  5 
If  thou  couldst  hear  my  spirit-voice, 
Thy  tears  would  cease  to  flow. 

I  *d  tell  thee  of  thy  future  home, 

Its  pure  unfading  bliss, 
Whore  hearts  that  once  have  swell'd  with  grief 

Now  ^well  with  happiness. 

I  W  tell  thee  how  our  angel  son 

Reclines  in  Jesus'  arms, 
Or  roams  with  me  these  heavenly  hills, 

Enraptured  with  their  charms. 

I  'd  tell  thee  how  with  seraph's  voice 
We  make  these  arches  ring, 


114?  A    VOICE     FROM    HEAVEN. 

And  sound  melodious  notes  of  praise 
To  Heaven's  eternal  King. 

I  'd  tell  thee  how  with  golden  wings 

"We  fly  at  his  command, 
Who  bought  for  us  this  heritage  — 

This  fair  delightful  land. 

I  'd  tell  thee  how  in  God's  own  book 

I  've  read  thy  title  clear, 
I  know,  my  own  !  my  still  beloved ! 

That  I  shall  see  thee  here. 

I  'd  tell  thee  of  the  glorious  rest 

Remaining  yet  for  thee, 
When  with  thy  loved  and  sainted  ones 

In  Heaven  thou  shalt  be. 

I  'd  tell  thee  of  the  honor'd  place 

The  Savior  will  prepare, 
When  thou  shalt  have  thy  shining  crown, 

And  robes  of  glory  wear. 

I  'd  tell  thee  how  these  ransom'd  ones 
No  more  shall  say  farewell, 

Forever  in  these  realms  of  joy 
Unparted  may  we  dwell. 

I  'd  tell  thee  how  we  long  for  thee, 
And  soon  expect  thee  here, 

Where  all  thy  sorrows  shall  be  past, 
Forgotten  every  tear. 


A    VOICE     FROM     HE  A  V  '  11 5 

0,  weep  not  in  thy  lonely  hours, 

My  Mary !  weep  not  so  ; 
If  thou  couldst  hear  my  spirit-voice, 

Thy  tears  would  cease  to  flow. 

Charleston,  June  20,  1840. 


THE   SOLITARY  WALK 


One  sunny  day  I  walk'd  abroad, 

All  balmy  was  the  air ; 
The  noble  Mississippi  roll'd 

Majestically  there. 

But  nature's  smiling  beauty  brought 
No  pleasure  to  my  breast, 

For  gloomy  grief  sat  brooding  there, 
An  uninvited  guest. 

In  vain  I  strove  to  drive  away 
The  deep  unwelcome  gloom, 

My  fav'rite  flowers  I  heeded  not, 
In  all  their  summer  bloom. 

It  was  the  first,  the  only  time, 

Since  I  was  left  alone, 
That  I  had  dared  to  wander  forth, 

A  solitary  one ! 

And  sadly  as  I  moved  along 
With  tott'ring  steps  and  slow, 


THE     S0L1TAR  V     W  ALL  117 

I  bent  beneath  the  pond'rous  weight 
Of  overwhelming  woe. 

The  mem'ry  of  that  dreadful  hour 

Remaineth  with  me  still  ; 
And  often  U>  my  bleeding  heart 

It  sends  an  icy  chill. 

I  seem'd  to  tread  the  earth  alone, 

The  last  of  human  kind  ; 
I  had  no  power  to  send  afar 

My  stricken,  palsied  mind. 

For  there  were  those  who  loved  me  well, 

Who  watch'd  my  early  years  ; 
And  many  dear  ones  shed  for  me 

Most  agonizing  tears. 

In  Carolina's  sunny  land, 

They  wept  and  pray'd  for  me  ; 
But  where  I  was,  I  had  not  one 

To  share  my  misery ! 

And  was  it  strange  that  I  should  feel 

The  heaviest  weight  of  gloom, 
"When  those  who  shared  my  last  sweet  walk, 

Were  silent  in  the  tomb! 

I  lean'd  upon  my  husband's  arm, 

And  on  him  gazed  with  pride, 
And  Charley  too,  my  darling  boy, 

Danced  gaily  by  my  side. 


118  THE     SOLITARY     WALK. 

There  was  an  old  and  leafless  tree 

Laid  prostrate  by  the  blast, 
And  often,  in  our  pleasant  walks, 

That  lonely  tree  we  pass'd. 

And  when  fatigued  with  rambling  long, 

It  was  our  resting  place ; 
For  sitting  there,  we  loved  to  gaze 

On  nature's  glorious  face. 

It  lay  upon  a  verdant  hill, 

Begirt  with  beauty  round  j 
How  often,  in  that  varied  scene, 

A  Paradise  we  found  ! 

The  far  famed  river  spread  below, 
All  gemm'd  with  islands  green, 

And  many  a  cloud  reflected  lay 
Upon  its  breast  serene. 

For  there  the  Mississippi  seem'd 

A  boundless  peaceful  sea, 
A  mirror  for  the  fleecy  clouds, 

And  many  a  forest  tree.* 

And  often,  on  its  bosom  fair 
Was  seen  the  light  canoe, 

*  The  waters  of  the  Mississippi,  above  the  Missouri,  are  very  differ- 
ent in  their  character  from  those  below.  Below,  they  are,  like  the 
Missouri  waters,  turbulent  and  muddy  ;  above,  they  are  singularly 
tranquil  and  clear,  excepting  at  the  rapids.  Bloomington,  the  scene 
of  the  preceding  poems,  is  situated  on  the  western  bank  of  the  Missis- 
sippi, two  or  three  hundred  miles  above  St.  Louis. 


T  H  i:    10  LI  TAB  v    W  1  L  k  .  1  ft 

Swift  darting  to  some  well  known  place 
Where  richest  berries  grew. 

While  gentle  maids,  all  blithe  of  heart, 

On  harmless  frolic  bent. 
(Who  'd  left  behind  each  grave  Mamma 

On  household  cares  intent,) 

And  gallant  youths,  in  merry  mood, 

Who  row'd  each  swift  canoe, 
Gave  life  and  gladness  to  the  scene, 

Which  seemed  forever  new. 

And  here  and  there,  among  the  trees, 

A  painted  Indian  stalked, 
With  gaudy  feathers  on  his  head, 

All  dancing  as  he  walked. 

For  many  a  stately  forest  chief 

Would  often  wander  there, 
Among  those  unfrequented  isles 

To  hunt  the  antler'd  deer. 

And  where  the  curling  smoke  afar 

Slow  mounted  to  the  skies, 
We  knew  a  freighted  steamer  came, 

And  soon  would  greet  our  eyes. 

Perhaps  't  would  bring  us  news  from  home, 

Tidings  of  joy  or  woe  ; 
Then  would  the  life  blood  in  our  veins 

With  swifter  current  flow. 


120  THE     SOLITARY     WALK. 

And  Charley,  springing  to  my  side, 
Would  watch  my  anxious  face  ; 

Or  throw  his  arms  around  my  neck, 
With  childhood's  native  grace  ; 

Or,  bringing  flowers,  the  fragrant  flowers, 

The  beautiful  and  rare, 
Would  climb  upon  the  prostrate  tree, 

And  twine  them  in  my  hair. 

For  he,  with  youthful  buoyancy, 

Would  never  want  to  rest, 
But,  hunting  for  the  sweetest  flowers, 

In  richest  colors  dress'd, 

Would  bring  them  to  his  mother  dear, 
To  wreathe  around  her  head : 

O,  God !  it  breaks  my  heart  to  think 
That  noble  boy  is  dead  ! 

He  was  the  life  of  every  scene, 
The  sunshine  of  my  breast  j 

He  smiled  away  each  gloomy  thought 
That  e'er  my  heart  oppress'd. 

But  now  in  loneliness  I  stood 

Beside  that  very  tree, 
And  mem'ry  seemed,  in  every  spot, 

My  darling  boy  to  see. 

But  when  I  gaz'd  with  earnest  eye, 
I  found  the  vision  fled  ; 


THE     SOLITARY     WALK.  121 

'Twas  but  a  momentary  thought, 
My  child —  my  child  was  dead  ! 

And  oh!  I  had  another  woe 

I  knew  not  how  to  bear  ; 
I  fdty  my  husband's  words  of  love 

I  never  more  should  hear. 

I  asked  my  heart,  "  0,  can  it  be 

I  am  so  desolate  1  " 
My  broken  heart,  with  throbbing  pain, 

Confess'd  the  mournful  fate. 

In  utter  solitude  of  soul, 

I  sat  me  down  and  wept, 
But  oruardian  ansrels  all  around 

Their  watchful  station  kept. 

I  heard  a  voice  which  said  to  me, 

M  Write,  Blessed  are  the  dead  ! 
0,  weep  not  that  thy  dearest  ones 

Away  from  earth  are  fled. 

Thy  Father  called  them  to  his  arms, 

Ere  long  he  '11  call  for  thee  j 
Then  wipe  away  those  bitter  tears. 

And  bow  to  his  decree." 

I  listen'd  to  the  soothing  voice, 

And  peace  return'd  again  ; 
I  a-k'd  for  sweet  submission,  too, 

And  did  not  ask  in  vain. 
10 


TO   MY   MOTHER 


Written  after  reading  the  following  sentence  in  one  of  her  letters  to 
Mr.  Dana,  received  by  Mrs.  D.  after  his  death:  —  "Come  to  us.  my 
dear  children,  as  soon  as  you  can." 

Dear  Mother  !  dear  Mother !  we  cannot  come  now, 

I  fly  to  your  arms  alone  ; 
Shall  I  find  a  soft  nest  in  your  dear  tender  breast, 

For  the  poor,  lonely,  heart-stricken  one  ? 

Dear  Mother  !  dear  Mother  !  the  grave  it  is  cold ; 

Yet  there  are  my  loved  ones  laid  ; 
How  sweet  would  it  be,  if  I  thought  not  of  thee, 

There  to  cool  my  poor  feverish  head  ! 

Dear  Mother  !  dear  Mother  !  I  long  to  die, 
For  my  treasures  are  laid  in  heaven  ; 

My  husband  is  there,  and  my  boy  is  there, 
And  my  brothers  and  sisters  seven  ! 

Dear  Mother  !  dear  Mother  !  I  '11  live  for  thee  j 

God  help  me  to  journey  home  ! 
There  is  always  rest  on  a  mother's  fond  breast ; 

I  come,  dearest  Mother,  I  come  ! 


TO    MR.    AND    MRS.    11.    N.    DAVIS, 
OF   ST.   LOUIS. 


Mv  kind  friends  will  excuse  this  public  mention  of  their  hospitality 
to  an  afflicted  stranger.  I  love  to  hold  up  to  view  the  bright  spots  in 
the  human  character  ;  and  I  do  it  now,  not  entirely  as  a  compliment  to 
them,  (for  they  know  the  deep  well  of  gTatitude  that  is  ever  springing 
in  my  heart.)  but  it  is  for  the  sake  of  the  afflicted  —  of  the  stranger — of 
those  who  may  be  in  need  of  the  kindness  and  hospitality  of  their  fel- 
low men  ;  it  is  for  an  example  to  those  who  may  have  an  opportunity  to 
u  do  likewi- 

I  came  a  stranger  lone  and  sad, 

Whose  earthly  prop  was  gone, 
And  ye  outstretch'd  your  shelt'ring  arms 

For  me  to  lean  upon  ; 
And  elasp'd  me  warmly  to  your  breasts, 

As  though  I  were  your  own  ; 
O,  who  can  prize  a  friendly  heart 

Like  one  who  's  all  alone  1 

The  husband  of  my  love  is  dead  — 
But  ye  my  griefs  have  soothed  ; 
And  the  rough  pathway  of  this  world 
*  Your  tenderness  hai  >moothed  \ 


'.  -A        - 

—  —  :.- : 

r  all  a.  Tale  o£  tears. 


Ota  raeh  the  snn  of  frien^hij 
Ti-  riiirT.  f  /-it-  : :  ;;.  —  :  . 

A::  7^  :r:  :  :ir  i  V .;.'.-. 2    :^i. 

eTeT.  in  tow  howrs  c 
.::-".  :r^  :■;-■=  :::  7: 


Wkk  yet  another  woe : 

•;    :-.-.■-:  •:     -  --—■;  — 

Batfetoofietklow! 
Tfce  father  and  Kb  darlia  g-  son 


In  two  short  days  they  both  were  dead  5 
An<4  when  I  ealFd  «ir  on, 

A":  \:.--.--.r.  .'.     :r.-.\  \ '.-"  '-.: ' '.  '.:.-.. 

".:.■-     ---:-:       --:  —  .'-     -..:--:    1-...  ----- 

Bat  He  who  kirwily  gare, 
A-  •..:.:.  7  -. '. -,a  2:.-::.  '-.  :..::.  -■/. 

Tbeir  so«ls  and  mine  to  sare. 


TO     X  B  .     AND     MES.     H .     X  .     DA 

The  srreat  deliv'rance  came  to  them 
From  sin.  and  pain,  and  woe  ; 

the  ties 
That  bound  my  heart  be! 
O.  then.  -      iiand  of  I 

Which  wrote  their  early  : 

leave  a  treac  rid,  while  I 

In  silence  am  to  \ 

i  —  bless  you  —  friendly  hear: 
In  all  this  i 
Ye  kindly  took  n  r  home, 

A  did  your  lore  bestow  : 
Ye  love  me.  tender  hearts  and  tr 

I  hear  it  in  each  tor 
1  see  it  iu  your  swimming 
I  feel  I  'm  not  aloue  ! 

St.  L 


THE   CHANGE. 


Written  on  board  the  steamboat  Gov.  Shelby,  on  the  Mississippi 
river,  October  20th,  1839. 

Why  do  I  stand  so  silently, 

With  folded  arms  and  tearful  eye  1 

Hour  after  hour  thus  I  spend, 

Immers'd  in  thoughts  which  know  no  end. 

It  was  not  thus  in  days  gone  by, 
When  heart  and  hands  found  full  employ, 
When  earth's  attachments  vvarm'd  my  breast, 
And  earth's  engagements  shared  my  rest. 

But  now,  dejected  and  alone, 
My  busy  thoughts  are  all  I  own, 
Thoughts  often  sad  as  parting  sighs, 
When  long  cemented  union  dies  ; 

But  oft'ner  sweet  as  greeting  tears, 
When  separations  end  with  years  ; 


Til  B     C  II  A  >  ■  1-7 

When  nought  the  union  shall  destroy. 
And  tears  alone  can  speak  the  joy. 

In  such  a  meeting  does  my  heart 
By  expectation  bear  a  part. 
When,  free  from  sin,  and  earth's  alloy, 
I  "11  greet  my  husband  and  my  boy. 

But  meetings  in  that  world  of  bliss, 
Are  never  tearful  as  in  this  j 
For  every  tear  is  wiped  away. 
And  every  eye  beams  bright  as  day. 

I  know  my  loved  ones  I  shall  see, 
With  arms  outstretch'd  to  welcome  me; 
Their  angel  voices  I  shall  hear, 
Sounding  my  rapt'rous  welcome  there. 

They  '11  lead  me  to  my  Savior's  feet, 
Whom  more  than  all  I  long  to  meet, 
And  in  one  thrilling  note  of  joy 
I  '11  join  my  husband  and  my  boy  ! 

It  could  not  be  a  tyrant's  nod, 
Which  call'd  them  to  that  bright  abode  ; 
It  must  have  been  a  Father's  hand, 
Which  led  them  to  the  promis'd  land. 

My  stately  tree,  and  beauteous  flower, 
Shall  never  droop  or  wither  more  ; 
Transplanted  to  a  genial  clime, 
They  flourish  in  immortal  prime. 


128  THE     CHANGE. 

"  They  are  not  lost  —  they  're  gone  before 
My  weary  days  shall  soon  be  o'er, 
When  all  that's  dark  shall  flee  away 
Before  the  dawn  of  heavenly  day. 

O,  then,  my  soul !  be  thankful  still, 
And  bow  thee  to  thy  Father's  will ; 
His  arm  shall  be  thy  constant  stay, 
Till  thou  art  sweetly  call'd  away. 

I  charge  my  footsteps  softly  tread 
The  same  dark  way  the  Savior  led  ; 
My  trembling  feet  shall  never  slide, 
With  such  a  Savior  at  my  side. 


J 


DON'T   CRY,    MY  MOTHER! 


'Twas  on  a  tranquil  summer's  morn, 

My  gentle  boy  and  I, 
Fatigued,  had  laid  us  down,  to  rest 

From  sporting  joyously  ; 
He  'd  close  his  laughing  violet  eyes, 

Then  slyly  peep  at  me  ; 
And  shake  his  curly  auburn  locks, 

And  laugh  right  merrily. 

A  welcome  leiter  came  from  home, 

That  home  was  distant  far  ; 
But  though  I  left  it  long  ago, 

'Twas  still  my  polar  star. 
O,  home  —  sweet  home  !   in  joy  or  woe, 

My  heart  will  turn  to  thee, 
Awake  —  asleep  —  my  thoughts  are  thine, 

Home  of  my  infancy  ! 

'Twas  there  my  childhood's  years  flew  by 
In  heartfelt  happiness, 


130  don't   cry,    my   mother. 

'Twas  there  I  learn'd  what  magic  power 

The  darkest  hour  could  bless  — 
'Twas  there  I  learn'd  what  love  could  do, 

Love  first,  my  God  !  to  thee  ! 
And  there  I  gave  my  heart  to  him 

Whose  love  was  bliss  to  me. 

But  now  sad  news  had  come  from  home, 

That  one  I  loved  was  dead, 
And,  weeping  sorely,  on  the  couch 

I  bowed  my  mournful  head. 
"  Don't  cry,  my  Mother  !  "  soft  and  sad, 

My  little  darling  said  ; 
But,  ah  !  I  only  wept  the  more  — 

His  cousin  Charles  *  was  dead  ! 

"  Don't  cry,  my  mother  !  "  once  again, 

In  trembling  tones  I  heard, 
And,  struggling  with  my  grief,  I  strove 

To  speak  one  soothing  word. 
My  little  Charley's  eyes  were  dim, 

And  one  unconscious  tear 
Roll'd  slowly  down  his  velvet  cheek  j 

My  grief  he  could  not  bear. 

So  far  his  little  life  had  been 

One  smiling  April  day, 
And  I  was  wrong  to  cloud  it  o'er  ; 

But  grief  must  have  its  way  ; 

*  Charles  Henry  Lanxeau.  who  died  in  Charleston,  in  1S39,  aged 
6  years. 


,    MY    MOTHER.  131 

I  kiss'd  away  the  stranger  tr 

And  smiled  upon  my  boy, 
And  then  his  little  angel  face 

Was  lighted  up  with  joy. 

And  soon  he  slept  —  then,  0,  how  sweet 

The  luxury  of  grief ! 
To  let  the  pent  up  feelings  flow, 

And  find  in  tears  relief! 
And,  ere  he  woke,  a  solemn  calm 

Sweet  o'er  my  spirit  stole, 
I  had  applied  for  Gilead's  balm  — 

It  came,  and  soothed  my  soul. 

But  now,  alas !  I  weep  again  ! 

And  weep  more  burning  tears  ; 
And  weep  alone  !  no  lovely  child 

To  soothe  my  grief  appears  5 
No  husband  near  —  how  sad  !  how  strange  ! 

He  who  was  all  to  me  — 
"Who  soothed  me  —  cheer'd  me  — loved  me  so  — 

0,  this  is  agony  ! 

My  God  !   my  God  !  I  weep  for  them  ! 

ne'er  will  I  repine  ; 
O,  help  me,  Father  !   those  I  loved, 

In  silence  to  resign  ! 
Shall  I,  from  thine  all-bounteous  hand, 

Receive  so  sweet  a  boon, 
And,  when  thou  calPst  them  to  thyself, 
/ive  thee  back  thifU  own  f 


132 


DON     T     CRY,     MY    MOTHER 


Hark !  hark !  that  little  cherub  voice, 

Sounds  gently  in  mine  ear, 
In  tones  of  angel  harmony, 

"  Don't  cry,  my  mother  dear  ! 
0,  wipe  away  those  flowing  tears, 

If  we  could  sorrow  here, 
'T  would  be  to  see  thee  mourn  for  us  ; 

Don't  cry,  my  mother  dear !  " 


New  Orleans,  October  25,  1839. 


TO    _UY    HUSBAND'S   PICTURE 


When  I  can  steal  a  moment  alone, 

I  gaze  on  thine  image,  my  sainted  one  ! 

And  turn  away  with  a  heavy  heart, 

For,  O,  my  love  !  we  are  far  apart  j 

Thou  art  in  Heaven,  and  I  below, 

A  mourning  widow,  in  weeds  of  woe. 

I  teach  my  heart  to  rejoice  for  thee, 
O,  glorified  spirit !  for  thou  art  free  ! 
And  though  thou  lovest  me  still,  my  dear  ! 
I  know  thou  would'st  rather  not  be  here  ; 
Thou  knowest  that  God  will  take  care  of  me, 
And  bring  me  soon  to  Heaven  and  thee  ! 

Perhaps  thou  art  hovering  o'er  me  now, 
And  watching  me  better  than  when  below  ; 
Perhaps  the  delightful  work  is  thine, 
To  keep  thy  vigils  o'er  me  and  mine  ; 
To  soothe  my  sorrows  and  dry  my  tears, 
T'  encourage  my  hopes  and  quell  my  fears. 
11 


134<  to   my   husband's   picture. 

Yes  —  I  will  fancy  that  thou  art  near, 

And  whisperest  often  in  my  ear, 

And  believe  that  thou  comest  not  alone, 

But  bringest  with  thee  our  angel  son ; 

O,  my  darlings !  is  it  not  sweet, 

Though  in  different  worlds,  in  spirit  to  meet  1 

Do  ye  not  know  that  I  can  say, 
Strength  has  been  equal  to  my  day  1 
Have  ye  not  heard  that  my  tearful  eye 
Oft  glances  upward  in  ecstasy, 
And  feasts  on  visions  of  future  joy, 
With  thee,  my  husband,  and  thee,  my  boy  1 

Ye  have  seen  what  here  I  cannot  see, 
The  stores  of  mercy  laid  up  for  me  ; 
Ye  have  known  what  here  I  cannot  know, 
Why  our  Father  has  laid  me  low ; 
The  wonderful  secrets  of  infinite  love 
Are  only  known  in  the  world  above. 

Then,  sainted  husband  !  I  '11  surely  try 

Rejoicing  to  live  as  well  as  die  ; 

Thou  wert  always  grieved  to  see  me  sad, 

And  ever  pleased  when  my  heart  was  glad  ; 

But  may  I  not  shed  one  tender  tear, 

When  I  gaze  on  thy  picture  alone,  my  dear  1 

Charleston,  January  11,  1840. 


REJOICE    WITH    THOSE   WHO   DO 
REJOICE." 


Ye  whom  I  fondly  loved  !  my  dearest  joys 

Were  treasured  up  in  you  j 
And  a  bright  store  of  cherish' d  earthly  bliss, 

The  future  brought  to  view  j 
'Twas  an  illusive  scene  —  that  picture  fair 

Hope's  rainbow  pencil  drew  ; 
Those  Eden  bowrers  have  faded,  and  those  walks 

Where  brightest  flowers  grew, 
Now  echo  not  the  sound  of  lightsome  steps  j 

Those  flowers,  pale  and  few, 
Close  up  their  faded  petals  mournfully, 

Nor  drink  the  balmy  dew  ; 
But  I  —  I  will  no  longer  vainly  droop 

O'er  such  a  scene  as  this  ; 
For  I  am  blest,  ye  happy  shining  ones ! 

In  all  your  blessedness ! 

Ye  were  the  idols  of  my  secret  heart, 
Enshrined  and  worshiped  there  ; 


136     REJOICE    WITH    THOSE    WHO    DO    REJOICE. 

And  I,  well  pleas' d  with  my  dear  household  gods, 

Found  earth  too  bright  and  fair  j 
No  cloud  seem'd  gathering  in  gloomy  wrath, 

To  tell  the  storm  was  near ; 
It  came,  as  comes  the  midnight  lightning's  flash, 

With  sudden  lurid  glare  ; 
And  left  as  dark  anight  within  the  heart, 

And  chill'd  the  soul  with  fear  j 
Gone  is  the  altar  of  my  idol  love, 

No  burning  fires  are  there ; 
But  I  —  I  gaze  where  beams  th'  eternal  sun 

Of  bright  celestial  bliss  ; 
For  I  rejoice,  ye  glorious  shining  ones  ! 

In  all  your  joyfulness  ! 

Charleston,  June  20,  1840. 


TO   MY   DEAR   DEPARTED    FRIEND 


Beloved  !  no  —  I  will  not  wish  for  thee, 
Nor  call  thee  from  thy  dear  delightful  home ! 
Resigivdand  patient  still,  O,  let  me  be, 
While  'tis  my  lot  in  loneliness  to  roam. 

Soon  —  soon  —  beloved  !  I  shall  go  to  thee  ; 
The  longest  life  is  short  —  time  flies  apace; 
I  know  'tis  well  thou  canst  not  come  to  me, 
Then  would  I  loiter  in  my  heavenly  race. 

O,  'twas  an  evil  and  a  bitter  thing, 
When  I,  forsaking  thee,  my  Father  God  ! 
With  all  my  heart  to  earth's  delights  did  cling, 
And  brought  upon  myself  thy  chast'ning  rod. 

Then  let  me  bear  it  —  though  it  break  my  heart ; 
I  '11  bless  the  hand  that  keeps  me  in  the  way  ; 
And  if  again  from  thee  my  steps  depart, 
O,  send  the  rod,  lest  I  forever  stray. 

16,  1841. 

11' 


MY    SISTER.* 


Ah  me  !  the  joyous  scenes  of  other  days 

Are  crowding  on  my  view.     The  mental  eye 

Is  aching  from  the  long  and  ardent  gaze 

On  these  bright  pictures  of  my  memory. 

I  am  in  danger  of  idolatry ; 

It  were  not  well  to  idolize  the  past, 

And  so  forget  the  present.     Blessings  lie 

All  —  all  around  me,  but  I  vainly  cast 

A  longing  eye  to  things  that  were  too  bright  to  last. 


Sweet  vine,  that  creep'st  along  the  lattice  work 
Of  my  dear  western  window  !  where  the  beams 
Of  the  departing  sun  do  wanton  lurk 
To  kiss  thy  blushing  flowers,  or  with  bright  gleams 

*  My  sister,  Jane  Keith  Palmer,  died  in  New  York,  May  27th. 
1837,  aged  22  years. 

u  Why  make  ye  this  ado,  and  weep?  The  damsel  is  not  dead,  but 
sleepeth."  —  Mark  v.  39. 


MY     S  I  ST  K  ■  .  139 

To  peep  through  all  thine  ever  opening  seams, 
When  gentle  breexesare  at  play  with  thee! 
Dear  to  my  heart  thy  enrtain'd  verdure!     Dreams 
Of  former  joyous  days  thou  bring'st  to  me, 
When  as  a  child  I  roam'd  where  vines  were  waving 
free. 


in. 

I  do  bethink  me  of  the  jessamine, 

The  pride  of  Carolina's  early  spring  ! 

Whene'er  to  swell  the  yellow  buds  begin, 

Their  odors  fly  on  every  breezy  wing, 

And  far  and  near  the  delicate  perfume  fling. 

And  when  the  fragrant  flowers  have  opened  wide, 

While  to  the  forest  pines  the  tendrils  cling, 

It  is  a  sight  to  raise  a  Southron's  pride, 

To  see  on  lofty  boughs  the  golden  flowers  ride. 


IV. 

I  'd  leave  the  city  gardens  when  our  own 

:  jessamines  are  blooming.     Fairy  land 
Is  not  more  beautiful,  than  when,  full  blown, 
The  jasmine,  gilt  by  the  Creator's  hand, 
Hangs  all  around  us.     Then  'tis  sweet  to  stand, 
At  early  morning,  with  a  friend  we  love, 
Beneath  our  fragrant  bowers,  while  pure  and  bland, 
The  playful  zephyrs  o'er  the  flow'rets  move, 
And  bring  a  perfumed  breath  from  many  a  dewy  grove. 


140  MY    SISTER 


V. 


I  had  a  gentle  sister  once  ;  and,  O, 
I  have  one  now ;  but  she  of  whom  I  sing  — 
Our  Jane  —  was  in  an  early  grave  laid  low, 
A  victim  to  the  stern  relentless  king, 
Whose  arrows  sharp  are  ever  on  the  wing  — 
Who  "  loves  a  lofty  mark."     0,  when  she  died, 
I  lost  a  friend  indeed  ;  my  heart  did  cling 
To  her  sweet  love,  and  in  that  love  confide ; 
For  though  more  young  than  I,  she  was  my  frequent 
guide. 


VI. 

How  often  have  we  roved  together,  where 

Our  fav'rite  jasmine  grew,  and  sat  us  down 

To  twine  a  wreath  each  in  the  other's  hair  ; 

Or  tax'd  our  skill  to  form  a  golden  crown, 

Forgetful  that  the  sun  would  soon  embrown 

Our  city  faces  with  his  kisses  rude  ! 

Nor  cared  we  for  the  dull  and  dusty  town, 

When  we  could  wander  through  the  lonely  wood, 

And  feel  in  all  their  power  the  sweets  of  sisterhood. 


VII. 

I  'm  never  weary  of  a  country  life, 

Where  tedious  city  noises  ne'er  intrude  ; 

O,  I  have  sicken'dwhen  the  jarring  strife 

Of  various  sounds  has  reach'd  my  solitude  — 

Discordant  gabblings  of  the  city  brood  ! 

'Mid  rural  scenes  my  thoughts  all  tranquil  flow, 


MY     SISTER.  141 

Attired  in  many  ■  sweet  similitude, 
For  poets  much  to  rural  emblems  owe, 

The  great  domain  of  nature  is  their  studio. 


VIII. 

My  sister  had  a  poet's  eye  and  heart ; 

Ye  '11  not  deny  she  had  a  poet's  face  ! 

For  ye  could  often  see  the  teardrop  start, 

And  many  a  proof  of  high  wrought  feeling  trace 

In  every  delicate  feature's  chaugefulness. 

If  early  she  had  not  been  call'd  to  die. 

She  might  have  found  an  enviable  place, 

Amid  that  throng  who've  gain'd  distinction  high 

By  clothing  burning  thoughts  in  sweetest  poetry. 


IX. 

My  fellow  man,  despise  not  poetry ! 
It  is   "  a  holy  thing  "  —  it  is  the  chain 
Electric,  hanging  from  the  glorious  sky. 
Touch  it  —  it  is  a  sov'reign  cure  for  pain  — 
A  remedy  not  often  tried  in  vain. 

raff  'ring  hearts !  the  poet  toils  for  you, 
And  while  he  toils,  himself  doth  comfort  gain  ; 
He  seeks  your  path  with  fragrant  flowers  to  strew, 
And,  while  he  plants  them  there,  enjoys  their  fragrance 
too. 


A  real  poet  is  a  friend  to  man, 

And  I  will  aye  revere  the  sacred  name  ; 


142  MY     SISTER. 

He  is  in  truth  a  skilful  artisan, 

And  his  material  is  thought.     The  flame 

That  burns  within  the  poet's  breast,  doth  aim 

To  purify  the  thoughts  of  every  mind, 

And  place  them  in  a  brightly  gilded  frame, 

For  curious  posterity  enshrined ; 

And  thus  he  ever  seeks  to  elevate  mankind. 

XL 

This  was  my  sister's  aim.     She  lived  to  bless 
And  comfort  all  around  her.     Discontent 
Was  banish'd  from  her  bosom.     Tenderness 
Its  beaming  softness  to  her  features  lent, 
And  made  each  gentle  movement  eloquent. 
And  she  was  gifted  too.     She  could  delight 
Her  friends  with  many  a  sweet  accomplishment 
Her  voice  was  music  —  and  her  sportive  wit 
Made  her  of  old  and  young  the  general  favorite. 


XII. 

She  had  a  soul  attuned  in  sweet  accord, 

Responsive  to  the  bard's  melodious  lay, 

Or  when  in  mournful  strains  his  voice  was  heard, 

Or  when  he  sang  in  tuneful  numbers  gay ; 

Each  trembling  chord  within  her  breast  would  play 

Like  an  iEolian  harp,  with  concord  sweet ; 

And  though  no  sound  her  feelings  would  betray, 

Her  soul  was  all  with  melody  replete  — - 

O,  it  was  music's  self  —  an  instrument  complete. 


- 


MY     SISTER.  14:3 


XIII. 


Was  she  not  lovely  \    Ye  who  loved  her,  tell  ! 
Was  she  not  gifted  \     Ye  who  knew  her,  say  ! 
The  love  ye  bore  her  speaks  your  answer  well. 
Your  falling  tears  did  more  than  words  convey, 
When  it  was  told  you  she  had  pass'd  away  — 
She,  who  had  won  the  warm  enduring  love 
Alike  of  old  and  young,  of  grave  and  gay  ! 
-peak  of  her  as  one  who  dwells  above ; 
I  want  no  other  words  your  high  regard  to  prove. 


XIV. 

Some  would  have  thought  her  cheek  a  shade  too  pale, 
Or  that  her  lovely  languid  eye  lack'd  fire ; 
For  fair  she  was  as  lily  of  the  vale, 
And  'neath  her  snowy  lids  would  oft  retire 
Her  gentle  eyes ;  but  this  provoked  desire 
To  see  those  eyes  once  more  j  for  what  is  rare 
And  seldom  seen,  we  always  most  admire  5 
Some  eyes  of  liquid  love  more  dang'rous  are, 
Than  eyes  of  sparkling  light  that   shame  the  evening 
star. 


XV. 

She  lackM  the  beauty  of  "  a  damask'd  skin," 
But  there  were  roses  lying  near  at  hand, 
To  spring  into  her  cheek  ;  oft  from  within 
They  came,  call'd  up  at  feeling's  high  command, 
And  on  the  glowing  surface  long  remain'd. 
O,  she  v:as  beautiful,  when  her  soft  eye 


144"  MY     SISTER. 

Would  speak  the  feelings  all  could  understand, 
And  on  her  cheek  glow'd  heaven-born  sympathy  ! 
O,  sympathy!  thou  hast  strange  power  to  beautify. 


XVI. 

There  stands  a  country  church  within  a  wood, 

Embower' d  by  branches  green  —  a  vocal  shade, 

Where  all  the  livelong  week  to  solitude 

Gay  plumaged  birds  their  cheerful  music  made. 

How  often  have  we  there  together  strayed, 

In  sweet  retirement  long  hours  to  spend  — 

To  listen  to  the  warbled  serenade, 

Or  talk  of  many  a  dear  departed  friend  ; 

Or,  to  our  absent  ones,  our  wishful  thoughts  to  send. 


XVII. 

0,  that  my  friends  would  ever  think  of  me 

In  such  dear  solitudes,  far,  far  away 

From  this  world's  bustle.     Then  fond  memory 

Can  take  a  long  and  undisturb'd  survey 

Of  scenes  long  past,  in  beautiful  array. 

'Mid  nature's  peaceful  shades  they  will  forget 

The  wayward  follies  of  my  life's  short  day, 

And  only  think  of  me  with  fond  regret, 

And  link  my  name  with  many  a  pleasing  epithet. 


XVIII. 

So  may  I  be  remembered,  when  my  heart 
Has  ceased  its  beating  !  —  when  the  purple  tide 
Has  curdled  in  my  veins,  that  used  t'  impart 


M  V     Si  B  I  1.  |  .  145 

Life,  health,  and  vigor  to  me.     Glorified 

Then  may  my  spirit  be  !     But  this  beside 

I  wish,  that  those  who  've  known  and  loved  me  here, 

In  lonely  hours  would  sometimes  turn  aside, 

O,  not  to  weep  beside  my  early  bier, 

But  just  to  think  of  me  as  one  to  mein'ry  dear. 


XIX. 

Sweet  sister!  thus  thy  friends  remember  thee  ; 

They  do  not  wildly  weep,  and  mourn  thy  fate, 

Thus  early  call'd  to  that  eternity 

Where  perfect  joys  the  ransom'd  soul  await. 

O,  not  with  tears  and  hearts  disconsolate 

Art  thou  lamented  !     While  we  mourn  our  loss, 

'Tis  joy  on  thy  great  bliss  to  meditate  ; 

And  thus  we  learn  to  count  as  only  dross, 

All  other  objects  save  our  dear  Redeemer's  cross. 


XX. 

That  cross,  my  sister  !   was  thy  constant  theme  ; 
Earth's  evanescent  pleasures  could  not  lure 
Thy  heart  from  him  who  had  thy  love  supreme. 
No,  dearest  !  rather  would  that  heart  endure 
The  utmost  strength  of  persecution's  power, 
Than  e'er  deny  the  friend  who  died  for  thee  ! 
But  now,  dear  angel !   now  thou  art  secure 
From  sorrow,  and  from  sin's  dark  tyranny  ! 

thou  art  safe  ill  Heaven,   from  sin   and    sorrow 
free ! 

12 


146  MY     SISTER 


XXI. 


That  head  that  lean'd  upon  our  mother's  breast 

With  such  a  fond  confiding  tenderness  — 

That  often  aching  head,  is  now  at  rest ! 

0,  't  would  be  sweet  once  more  thy  form  to  press 

Close  to  my  loving  heart  ;  but  motionless 

That  form  now  lies  beneath  the  silent  sod  ! 

Well  —  rest  thee  there,  in  sweet  forgetfulness, 

Till  glorious  life  shall  visit  thine  abode, 

And  thou  shalt  rise  to  dwell  forevermore  with  God  ! 


XXII. 

When  shall  I  sleep  as  thou  art  sleeping  now, 

To  wake  no  more  till  waken'd  by  the  sound 

Of  the  archangel's  trumpet  1     Here  below 

I  would  not  always  dwell.     The  cold  damp  ground 

Has  sweeter  charms  for  me  than  can  be  found 

On  downy  pillow.     I  shall  not  be  free 

Till  pale  faced  mourners  shall  my  grave  surround, 

And  many  a  faithful  friend  who  loveth  me, 

Shall  seek  me  in  the  morning,  but  I  shall  not  be. 


XXIII. 

For  my  poor  heart  is  often  full  of  grief  — 

All  seems  so  dark  around  me.     Stubborn  fate 

Has  left  me  like  a  seared  autumn  leaf, 

Nearly  alone.     Whene'er  I  meditate 

On  my  once  peaceful,  joyful,  blest  estate, 

And  think  how  chang'd  are  all  my  prospects  now, 

My  future  joys  I  must  anticipate, 


MV     SISTER.  1  1-7 

Else  would  I  'neath  the  weight  of  anguish  bow, 
And  gloom,  dark  frowning  gloom,  would  overcloud  my 
brow. 


XXIV. 

The  very  things  my  soul  refused  to  touch  * 
Are  as  my  sorrowful  meat.     O,  wroe  is  me ! 
For  all  night  long  with  tears  I  wet  my  couch, 
And  peaceful  thoughts  far  from  my  pillow  flee  ; 
O,  God  !  let  loose  thy  hand,  and  set  me  free  ! 
How  can  I  live  —  for  is  my  strength  of  stones, 
Or  is  my  flesh  of  brass  1     Woe,  woe  is  me  ! 
The  livelong  day  my  breath  is  turned  to  groans  ; 
My  God  has  troubled  me,  and  broken  all  my  bones. 


xxv. 

But  cease,  desponding  heart !     To  Heaven  lift 

With  earnest  faith  thine  agonizing  cry, 

And  ask  for  patience.     Patience  is  a  gift 

Of  rare  attainment.     Disappointments  try  — 

Severely  try  our  frail  humanity, 

And  chafe  the  delicate  framework  of  the  mind, 

Unless  'tis  steel'd  by  patience.     0,  may  I 

Be  sweetly  to  my  Father's  will  resign'd, 

And  thus  'mid  all  my  woes,  I  still  may  comfort  find. 


XXVI. 

How  many  cares  do  press  the  soul  to  earth, 
Nor  can  we  rid  us  of  them  !     How  they  cling 

•  Complaint  of  Job. 


148  31  Y     SISTER. 

To  love,  to  friendship !     Ah !  they  have  their  birth 
Where  love  and  friendship  reign  ;  for  every  thing 
Our  loved  ones  feel,  we  feel.     Their  sorrows  wring 
Our  inmost  hearts.     The  hardest  grief  to  bear 
Is  that  of  others  when  we  cannot  bring 
Joy  to  the  stricken  heart,  nor  wipe  the  tear, 
Nor  cure  the  countless  ills  of  which  we  daily  hear. 


XXVII. 

I  will  not  mourn  my  loved  ones  who  are  dead ; 

I  know  they  are  in  Heaven.     O,  happy  thought! 

Sorrow,  away  !     He  who  on  Calv'ry  bled 

For  all  who  love  him,  has  redemption  bought, 

And  for  the  soul  a  righteousness  has  wrought, 

So  pure,  so  spotless,  that  the  King  of  kings 

Will  look  upon  it,  and  refuse  it  not ! 

Fly,  fly,  my  soul,  on  faith's  triumphant  wings, 

Nor  grovel  here  on  earth,  amid  these  gloomy  things  ! 


XXVIII. 

There  is  an  hour  which  cometh  unto  all  — 

A  solemn  trying  hour  that  must  be  met ; 

'Tis  when  the  damps  of  death  around  us  fall, 

As  night  dews  gather  ere  the  sun  is  set. 

When  comes  that  hour  to  me,  I  '11  not  forget 

The  only  friend,  whose  friendship  can  avail 

To  bear  me  safely  through  "  death's  iron  gate  "  — 

To  chase  away  the  foes  who  dare  assail 

My  trembling,  dying  heart,  when  flesh  and  spirit  fail. 


MY     SISTER.  1  k> 


XXIX. 


My  sister  Jane  !  I  did  not  see  thee  die, 

Though  I  was  near  thee  when  thy  spirit  fled  j 

It  nearly  broke  my  heart  to  think  that  I 

Could  not  be  bending  o'er  thy  dying  bed  — 

Supporting  in  mine  arms  thy  fainting  head  ! 

It  was  God's  holy  will  to  lay  me  low, 

And,  ere  I  left  my  couch,  O,  thou  wert  dead ! 

It  pleased  my  Father  that  it  should  be  so, 

And  I  will  not  repine,  my  heavenly  Father!     No  ! 

XXX. 

And  she  — »  our  sole  surviving  sister  —  who 
Did  love  thee,  dearest !  with  such  tenderness, 
In  thy  last  hour  was  absent  from  thee  too  ! 
Well,  all  is  right  —  and  we  must  acquiesce 
In  God's  most  wise  appointments,  and  confess 
That  he  doth  all  things  well  —  so  let  it  be ! 
Yes,  holy  Father !  and  thy  name  we  bless, 
That  our   sweet  sister  was  so  dear  to  thee  — 
One  of  thy  chosen  ones,  from  all  eternity  ! 

XXXI. 
But  she  was  not  alone  when  death  was  near : 


For,  though  so  far  from  her  dear  southern  home, 
Her  father,  mother,  brother,  all  were  there  ! 
And  her  adopted  sister  too  had  come 
To  see  her  loved  one  die.     That  silent  room 
Was  not  by  hireling  strangers  occupied, 
Whisp'ring  their  wonder  at  thine  early  doom  ; 
12* 


150  MY     SISTER. 

No  —  no  —  it  was  not  thus  my  sister  died  — 
Her  own  belov'd  ones  stood  her  dying  bed  beside. 


XXXII. 

My  brother  rais'd  her  in  his  own  fond  arms, 
But  just  before  her  eager  spirit  fled  ; 
She  smiled  as  if  she  saw  seraphic  charms, 
And  in  another  moment  she  was  dead! 
I  heard  a  voice  of  weeping,  and  I  said 
To  one  who  watch'd  beside  me,  "Do  you  hear 
That  sound  1  What  is  it  1 "  She  this  answer  made, 
"  'Tis  nothing."     Soon  it  died  upon  my  ear, 
And  then  I   sank  to   sleep,  not   dreaming  death  was 
there. 


XXXIIL 

And  my  dear  angel  sister  was  in  Heaven  ! 
A  happy  spirit  —  grief  and  anguish  o'er  — 
All  sufF'rings  ended  —  all  her  sins  forgiven  — 
Safe  landed  on  that  bright  immortal  shore 
Beyond  cold  Jordan's  stream  !     O,  never  more 
Could  mortal  sickness  waste  her  feeble  frame ! 
No,  sister,  no  !     Death  had  no  further  power 
To  harm  thee.     Like  a  long  forgotten  dream 
Did  all  thy  woes  —  thy  pains  —  thine  earthly  sorrows 
seem. 


xxxiv. 

There  was  a  deathlike  stillness  —  but  the  truth 
Ne'er  flash'd  upon  me,  till  the  morning  came, 


MY     SISTER 


151 


That  the  beloved  companion  of  my  youth 

Had  passed  away.     I  knew  her  sufTring  frame   ' 

Grew  weaker  every  day —  1  knew  the  flame 

Of  life  was  burning  with  a  feeble  light, 

But  when  the  taper  gave  its  parting  gleam, 

I  knew  it  not  !     Her  spirit  took  its  flight 

While  I  was  wrapt  in  sleep,  that  sad  eventful  night. 

XXXV. 

1  should  not  call  it  sad.     It  was  not  sad  ! 

When  morning  came,  they  told  me  life  had  fled ; 

v  my  father's  brow  with  paleness  clad, 
I  saw  my  mother  raise  her  aching  head, 
And  they  both  told  me  that  our  Jane  was  dead  — 
But  that  she  was  in  Heaven  !     Then  all  drew  near, 
And,  while  they  knelt  around,  my  father  pray'd  ; 
He  held  my  thin  pale  hand  —  and,  0,  that  prayer  ! 
His  solemn  deep  toned  voice   e'en  now  I  seem  to 
hear ! 


XXXVI. 

Well  —  let  that  pass.     My  honor'd  father  lives  — 
I  must  not  praise  the  living.     But  I  may 
Implore  of  Him  who  every  blessing  gives, 
Long,  long  to  spare  him  to  us.     Yes,  I  pray, 
My  heavenly  Father !  that  the  trying  day 
Of  separation  may  not  quickly  come  ; 
Take  not  my  few  remaining  friends  away  ; 
Hide  not  my  loved  ones  in  the  envious  tomb, 
Unless  it  please  thee  first  to  take  my  spirit  home. 


152  MY     SISTER. 


XXXVII. 


They  told  me  she  look'd  beautiful  in  death, 

My  lovely  sister  !  and  I  long'd  to  see 

That  calm  repose  ;  for  with  her  parting  breath 

There  came  a  look  of  peace  —  of  ecstasy, 

Which  settled  on  her  features.     Eagerly 

1  prayed  I  might  be  carried  to  her  side, 

To  gaze  upon  the  face  so  dear  to  me ; 

And  in  a  moment  arms  were  open'd  wide  — 

My  husband's  faithful  arms ;  and  I  was  gratified  ! 

Charleston,  July  8,  1841. 


TO   A   SISTER,    IN    THE   REPOSE 
OF  DEATH. 


Sleep  on,  sweet  sister!  holy  joy 

Sits  on  thy  placid  brow  ; 
No  sudden  anguish  can  destroy 

Thy  peaceful  slumbers  now. 

Sleep  on  —  sleep  on  —  and  I  will  pray 

That  I  may  rest  like  thee, 
When  comes  the  pris'ner's  ransom  day, 

My  life's  great  jubilee  ! 

Sleep  on !  'tis  long  since  thou  hast  known 

A  sweet  release  from  pain  ; 
Dear  angel,  bowing  near  the  throne  ! 

Thou  canst  not  weep  again ! 

Sleep  on  —  sleep  on  — thy  work  is  done  ! 

I  must  not  mourn  for  thee  ! 
I  wish  thee  joy,  thou  ransom'd  one  ! 

Thou  hast  thy  liberty  ! 

New  York,  May  24,  1337. 


TO    MY    ONLY    SISTER 


Msr  last  —  my  only  one  ! 
O,  leave  me  not  alone  — 

Bereft  of  all ! 
May  we  together  go, 
That  those  we  leave  below 
May  o'er  us  lightly  throw 

One  funeral  pall ! 

I  would  not  from  thee  part, 
Thou  of  the  gentle  heart, 

And  dove-like  mien ! 
Go  not,  my  only  one  ! 
As  those  we  loved  have  gone  ; 
Who,  passing  gently  on, 

No  more  are  seen. 

Theirs  is  the  peaceful  home, 
And  ours  the  lonely  gloom 

Of  parted  love ; 
We  hear  their  evening  hymn 
As  some  remember' d  dream ; 


TO     my     o  N  L  V     SIS  T  K  B  .  1T>T> 

Sweet  whisp'rcr  does  it  seem 
Of  songs  above  ! 

In  fair  immortal  bowers 
Of  amaranthine  flowers, 

They  sweetly  dwell  ; 
Pain  cannot  enter  there, 
Nor  dark  foreboding  fear, 
Nor  dull,  corroding  care, 

Nor  sad  farewell  ! 

How  many  cherish'd  ones, 
Array'd  in  sparkling  crowns, 

Shall  greet  us  there  ! 
There  are  our  treasures  laid, 
Earth's  love,  immortal  made, 
Shall  never,  never  fade, 

But  grow  more  fair. 

Pass  not  away  from  earth, 
And  from  thy  peaceful  hearth, 

And  leave  me  here  ! 
When  thy  freed  spirit  flies 
To  seek  its  native  skies, 
Then,  too,  may  I  arise, 

And  enter  there  ! 

Charleston,  June  28,  1840. 


MY   BROTHER.* 


Kind  friends  !  bear  with  me  but  a  moment  more, 
My  tales  of  death  are  nearly  ended  now  ; 
'Tis  sad  I  must  repeat  them  o'er  and  o'er. 
If  by  these  mournful  lines,  on  any  brow 
I  cause  a  cloud  to  gather,  O,  do  Thou 
Whose  love  can  turn  the  darkest  night  to  day, 
Dispel  the  gloomy  clouds,  and  me  endow 
With  power  to  sing  a  sweetly  soothing  lay, 
And  by  religion's  light  to  chase  the  gloom  away. 


II. 

Yet  all  have  sorrows  —  all  are  called  to  mourn  $ 
There  lives  no  man  who  has  not  bid  farewell 
To  youthful  joys  that  never  will  return. 
Then  patient  listen  to  the  mourner's  tale, 
And  if  perchance  your  gentle  bosoms  swell 

*  My  brother,  Isaac  Stockton  Keith  Palmer,  died  in  Havana, 
Green  County,  Alabama,  February  10,  1839,  aged  26  years. 
"  Thy  brother  shall  rise  again."  —  John  xi.  23. 


M  V     RKOT  II  B  R  .  157 

With  sympathetic  feeling,  breathe  a  prayer 

For  all  who  in  the  vale  of  sorrow  dwell, 

That  pitying  11  raven  would  grant  them  strength  to  bear 

The  woes  they  but  increase  by  yielding  to  despair. 


III. 

Like  an  oasis  in  the  desert  wild, 

Is  the  sweet  sympathy  of  tender  hearts 

To  the  sad  mourner  —  sorrow's  weeping  child  ! 

O,  when  the  bitter  tear  of  anguish  starts, 

When  every  cheering  ray  of  hope  departs, 

When  tides  of  sorrow  o'er  the  bosom  roll, 

And  pleasure  vainly  tries  her  dazzling  arts, 

If  aught  on  earth  can  soothe  the  stricken  soul, 

Sweet  sympathy  will  oft  grief's  raging  tide  control. 


IV. 

But  let  me  with  my  mournful  task  proceed  ; 

'Tis  pleasing,  though  'tis  mournful.     I  have  said 

How  my  dear  brother,  in  her  hour  of  need, 

Stood  near  his  darling  sister's  dying  bed, 

And  on  his  bosom  held  her  drooping  head. 

But  ah,  sad  thought !  I  have  no  brother  now  ! 

He  too  is  number'd  with  the  silent  dead ! 

When  the  strong  hand  of  death  shall  lay  me  low, 

O,  he  will  not  be  near,  to  wipe  my  cold  damp  brow  ! 

v. 

'Twas  sad  to  see  him  when  our  sister  died, 
Struggling  to  bear  his  grief  composedly  ; 
13 


158  MY     BROTHER. 

For  they  had  "  grown  together  —  side  by  side  ;" 
And  it  was  rare  such  perfect  love  to  see 
As  was  their  love.     But  they  were  not  to  be 
Divided  long.     Ere  one  short  year  had  pass'd, 
Our  tender  mother's  penetrating  eye 
Saw  that  disease  a  with'ring  blow  had  cast 
Upon  her  only  son,  and  he  was  failing  fast. 


VI. 

'Tis  much  to  say  his  mother  was  his  friend  ; 
For  this  implies  such  holy  confidence, 
As  will  at  once  his  filial  heart  commend ; 
And  we  may  draw  this  wise  conclusion  thence, 
That  both  were  worthy  ;  for  kind  Providence 
Hath  so  arranged  this  sweet  relationship, 
That  faithfulness  will  bring  its  recompense. 
Who  sows  the  seed  will  aye  the  harvest  reap  — 
A  faithful  mother  will  her  son's  affections  keep. 


VII. 

Good  mothers  make  good  men.     It  is  a  truth 

With  few  exceptions,  that  the  great  and  good 

Have  learn'd  such  lessons  in  their  earliest  youth, 

That,  like  attendant  angels,  they  have  stood 

Close  by  their  side  in  hours  of  solitude, 

There,  by  the  charms  of  mem'ry,  to  arrest 

Each  thought  of  vice,  whene'er  it  would  intrude 

Into  the  heart.     0,  those  are  truly  blest, 

Who  drink  the  purest  virtue  at  their  mother's  breast. 


MY      BROTHER.  159 


VIII. 


Few  lose  the  mem'ry  of  a  mother's  love  ; 

Few  ir<>  so  far  from  virtue,  that  they  ne'er 

Think  of  the  hand  that  pointed  them  above  ; 

The  lips  that  whisper' d  in  their  infant  ear  ; 

The  eyes  that  often  shed  affection's  tear. 

I  speak  of  Christian  mothers.     There  are  those 

Who  lead  the  way  in  folly's  mad  career, 

Who  never  speak  of  Heaven's  blest  repose, 

Or  tell  in  accents  sweet,  of  Sharon's  deathless  Rose. 


IX. 

How  often,  in  the  tender  sprouting  time 
Of  early  youth,  the  plant  receives  a  blight ! 
Or  the  young  vine,  that  upward  loves  to  climb, 
Creeps  on  the  ground  from  careless  oversight, 
Needing  a  friendly  hand  to  train  it  right ! 
Then  let  the  tree  of  knowledge  flourish  near, 
To  give  the  clinging  vine  support,  and  bright 
Will  be  the  clustering  flowers  that  vine  will  bear, 
And  rich  reviving  fruit,  man's  drooping  heart  to  cheer. 


"  Knowledge  is  power."     'Tis  a  trite  remark, 

But  true.     '77s  power  for  good  or  ill ; 

With  ever  bright'ning  flame  it  lights  the  dark 

Uneven  path  to  Zion's  holy  hill, 

Which  else  had  been  to   mortals  darken'd  still, 

Or  fires  the  magazine  so  full  of  things 

Combustible  —  man's  unre?enerate  will. 


160  MY     BROTHER. 

Knowledge  gives  pain  or  joy.     To  earth  it  clings, 
Or  to  the  highest  Heaven  it  soars  with  eagle  wings. 


XL 

My  brother's  gifted  mind  was  furnish'd  well 
With  earthly  knowledge,  and  with  heavenly. 
I  've  often  seen,  as  words  of  wisdom  fell 
From  lips  so  young,  surprise  light  up  the  eye, 
When  those  who  knew  not  his  attainments  high 
Held  converse  with  him.     From  his  earliest  years, 
His  eager  mind  with  such  intensity 
Sought  after  knowledge,  that,  oppress'd  with  fears, 
His  parents  oft  would  shed  most  sad  foreboding  tears 


XII. 

For  when  they  saw  his  cheek  grow  thin  and  pale, 

And  saw  the  lustre  fading  from  his  eye, 

What  wonder  if  their  anxious  hearts  did  fail 

Within  them  1     Oft  they  fear'd  that  he  would  die 

A  victim  to  that  slow,  sure  malady  — 

The  fever  of  the  mind.     Their  only  son  — 

Their  gifted  son  he  was  ;  yet  silently 

They  saw  disease  at  work ;  that  work  begun, 

How  surely  speeds  it  on,  until  at  length  —  'tis  done  ! 


XIII. 

How  often  is  the  meed  of  fame  obtain'd 

At  vast  expense  ;  by  blood,  and  groans,  and  tears  ! 

But  he  who  immortality  has  gain'd 

By  lightening  the  load  of  human  cares, 


MY    BROTHBB.  I  til 

Or  teaching  men  true  wisdom,  passing  j 

Dim  aot  the  glory  of  his  deathless  fame: 

For  each  succeeding  age  its  witness  hears 

To  things  which  ever  must  attention  claim, 

And  shed  a  living  light  upon  their  author's  name. 


XIV. 

Lo  !  on  the  mount  where  fame's  proud  temple  towers, 

All  things  look  beautiful  to  those  below; 

And  trees  of  life,  and  amaranthine  flowers, 

Immortal  there  in  bright  luxuriance  grow, 

And  streams  with  soft  melodious  murmurs  flow. 

Lured  by  the  view,  ambition's  vot'ries  press 

To  reach  th'  inviting  spot  which  charm'd  them  so  ; 

But  many  a  man  who  there  has  gain'd  access, 

Has  gain'd  it  at  th'  expense  of  health  and  happiness. 


XV. 

Then  what  to  him  the  glory  of  renown  — 
The  loud  tongued  welcome  to  the  realms  of  fame  — 
The  nymphs  who  wait  his  weary  brow  to  crown, 
And  sing  with  voices  sweet  his  honor'd  name  1 
How  sinks  his  heart  who  hears  the  loud  acclaim, 
But  sees  the  landscape  fading  from  his  eye, 
And  feels  that  he  has  overtask'd  his  frame, 
And  spent  his  life  to  reach  the  summit  high  ! 
Just  as  his  end  is  gain'd,  he  lays  him  down  —  to  die  ! 

13* 


162  MY     BROTHER. 

XVI. 

'Tis  sad —  'tis  sad  f  but  if  his  aim  has  been 

To  plant  with  deathless  flowers  man's  rugged  way, 

What  matters  it  if  he  must  leave  the  scene, 

And  die  upon  his  coronation  day  1 

Bright  round  his  head  immortal  glories  play  ; 

'Tis  joy  to  think  he  has  not  lived  in  vain  ; 

For  every  tear  that  he  has  wiped  away, 

An  angel  comes  to  cool  his  burning  brain, 

Attend  his  dying  couch,  and  mitigate  his  pain. 

XVII. 

My  brother  cared  not  for  this  world's  applause  ; 
He  long'd  to  be  a  minister  of  God, 
Well  furnish'd  for  his  work.     His  object  was 
To  preach  the  blessed  gospel,  but  the  rod 
Was  often  held  above  him,  while  he  trod 
The  path  of  learning.     Sickness  often  came, 
And  to  his  failing  heart  his  weakness  show'd  ; 
But  still  within  his  bosom  burn'd  the  flame 
Of  love  to  dying  men,  and  to  the  Savior's  name. 

XVIIL 

In  early  youth  religion  was  his  choice  — 

His  solemn  choice  j  and  one  might  often  hear, 

In  some  retired  place,  his  deep  toned  voice  — 

That  voice  so  like  his  father's  —  rais'd  in  prayer, 

When,  with  his  young  companions,  gather'd  there, 

He'd  kneel  before  the  mercy  seat,  and  fly 

On  wings  of  faith  above  this  world  of  care. 


M  I     BROTH  E  Ei  163 

Thus  while  to  Heaven  he  turn'd  his  constant  eye, 
He  heeded  not,  nor  loved,  the  vain  world's  flattery. 


XIX. 

That  man  is  blest,  who  ne'er,  with  greedy  ears, 
Drank  in  the  sounds  of  flatt'ry's  silver  tongue  ; 
He  feels  himself  a  man,  who  never  cares 
To  hear  his  name  on  fame's  loud  tocsin  rung, 
Content  to  be  unnoticed  and  unsung  ! 
He  who,  with  stern  integrity  of  soul, 
Moves  on,  earth's  fawning  sycophants  among, 
Has  that  within  himself  which  can  control 
Deep  sorrow's  darkest  waves,  and  make  them  back- 
ward roll. 


XX. 

Who  cares  not  to  be  prais'd  or  paragraphed, 
Is  wise  —  is  happy.     Better  'tis  to  be 
Too  low  to  make  a  mark  for  envy's  shaft, 
Than  be  so  high  that  thousands  bow  the  knee. 
The  happiest  men  are  men  of  low  degree, 
Cheerful,  contented  with  their  humble  lot, 
With  minds  enlightened,  and  with  thoughts  all  free, 
Who  have  no  restless  cares,  of  pride  begot, 
Nor  envy  others'  fame,  because  they  have  it  not. 

XXI. 

I  'd  rather  gaze  at  earth's  proud  pageantry, 
Than  be  a  part  o'  the  show.  I  love  to  hide 
Far  from  the  envious  world's  malignant  eye, 


164«  MY     BROTHER. 

And  calmly  down  the  ever  flowing  tide 

Of  this  short  life,  in  humble  silence  glide. 

I  'm  weary  of  the  never  ending  chase 

After  the  world's  esteem  —  its  pomp  and  pride  ! 

Then  grant  me,  Heaven !  some  secret  hiding  place, 

Till  I  shall  sweetly  rest  —  asleep  in  death's  embrace. 


XXII. 

O,  let  me  feel  the  almost  heavenly  bliss  — 

The  calm  contentment  of  humility ! 

There  never  was  a  plainer  truth  than  this  ; 

"  Peu  cormue,  peu  troublee."  *     I  long  to  be 

Unnoticed  and  unknown  ;  my  actions  free  — 

Untrammel'd  by  proud  fashion's  stern  decrees. 

O,  this  is  life  !  to  bow  the  willing  knee 

Alone  to  God,  and,  with  a  mind  at  ease, 

To  catch  the  gales  of  Heaven  in  every  passing  breeze, 


XXIII. 

I  hate  "  that  solemn  vice  of  greatness  —  pride  !  "  f 

'Tis  like  an  angel  to  be  truly  great, 

Yet  truly  humble.     He  who  seeks  to  hide 

His  virtuous  deeds,  shall  sweetly  meditate 

In  lonely  hours,  and  thus  anticipate 

The  peace  of  Heaven.     The  man  of  noble  mind, 

Whom  earth's  loud  praises  never  can  elate, 

Has  fix'd  his  anchor  where  no  storms  unkind 

Can  shake  his  steadfast  soul,  to  every  storm  resign'd. 

*  Motto  of  Hortense  Beauharnais. 
f  Ben  Jonson. 


MY     BROTHER.  165 


XXIV. 


But  whither  have  I  wander'd  \     'Tis  my  fault 

T' assume  au  attitude  belligerent, 

And  with  a  wordy  war  my  foes  t'  assault ! 

My  words  are  harmless,  let   me  giYe  them  vent, 

Nor  in  my  bosom  harbor  discontent ; 

Things,  and  not  persons,  are  my  enemies. 

And  if  I  stay  to  pluck  a  flower,  and  paint 

Its  unpretending  beauties  to  your  eyes, 

O,  follow  for  awhile  my  restless  vagaries. 

XXV. 

My  brother  left  us  soon.     His  heart  was  sad, 
And  all  were  sad  around  him.     "Who  could  say 
What  was  before  us  *     Hearts  one  moment  clad 
In  robes  of  joy,  another  moment  may 
Be  dress'd  in  sorrow's  sables.     Happy  they, 
Who  in  the  bosom  of  the  Savior  dwell, 
And  find  a  refuge  there  in  grief's  dark  day. 
The  parting  came  —  how  did  each  bosom  swell, 
When,  with  a  silent  kiss,  he  told  us  all  farewell ! 


XXVI. 

And  as  he  turn'd  he  dash'd  a  tear  away  ; 

For  he  must  feel  a  pang  who  says  "  farewell  ; " 

Yet  'tis  a  word  that  all  have  had  to  say. 

To  me  it  ever  seems  a  mournful  knell  ; 

And,  when  I  hear  it,  tides  of  sorrow  swell 

My  heart,  and  busy  mem'ry  brings  to  me 

Full  many  a  by-gone  hour,  whose  potent  spell 


166  MY     BROTHER. 

Returns  with  all  its  weight  of  agony. 

O,  parting  scenes!  too  vividly  ye  come  to  me ! 


XXVII. 

He  left  us.     'Twas  a  blessing  soon  to  hear 

That  he  had  comforted  his  aching  heart 

By  the  sweet  power  of  love.     O,  what  can  cheer 

Man's  heart,  like  woman's  love  1     What  can  impart 

Such  healing  balm  %     What  else  remove  the  dart 

Still  rankling  in  the  bosom  %     Thou  hast  proved, 

O,  gentle  Love  !  full  well  thy  healing  art !  — 

One  of  Virginia's  fairest  daughters  loved 

Our  stricken  one,  and  thus  the  deadly   dart  remov'd. 

XXVIII. 

O,  Love  !  thy  presence  sweetens  all  below  ! 
Thou  art  the  sunshine  of  life's  dreary  road ; 
Or,  'mid  the  storm,  thou  art  the  cheering  bow 
Held  up  before  us  by  the  hand  of  God ! 
He  who  has  long  life's  devious  pathway  trod, 
And  knows  that  sorrow  is  man's  certain  doom, 
Needs  one  to  help  him  bear  each  heavy  load. 
In  search  of  bliss  man  never  ought  to  roam, 
When  lovely  woman  is  the  polar  star  of  home, 

XXIX, 

Love  timid  flies  the  busy  haunts  of  men  ; 
The  dear  domestic  altar  is  his  throne  ; 
One  word  unkind  may  break  his  blissful  reign  ; 
He  goes  where  willing  hearts  his  empire  own, 


M  V     B  B  0  T  II  B  B  . 

And  takes  alarm  at  one  disloyal  tone. 
And  if  he  spread  his  ever  active  wings, 
I  ».  rae  for  pardon  quick  —  or  he  is  gone  ! 
And  as  he  llies,  this  farewell  truth  he  sings, 
Experience  oft  too  late,  a  sad  repentance  brings. 


XXX. 

My  brother  loved,  and  was  beloved  again. 

The  peerless  maid  whose  love  his  heart  did  bless, 

Held  his  affections  by  a  golden  chain, 

All  onalloy'd.     Much  in  her  artless  grace, 

And  in  her  soul-snbduing  gentleness, 

Did  she  resemble  her  who  was  in  Heaven  — 

Our  sainted  sister  ;  and  her  sweet  fair  face, 

So  like  to  hers,  seem'd  a  dear  token  given 

To  comfort  all  our  hearts,  so  deeply  sorrow-riven. 


XXXI. 

He  led  her  to  the  altar,  where  their  hands, 
Those  willing  hands,  by  one  who  lately  died* 
Were  join' d  with  Hymen's  life-enduring  bands; 
Their    hearts    were    one    before.       The     fair     young 

bride  — 
The  lily  of  Virginia,  by  the  side 
Of  Carolina's  son  stood  modestly, 
While  on  them  gazed  fond  parents  in  their  pride. 
It  is  a  sight  that  all  must  love  to  see  — 

-uthful  pair  thus  join'd  by  Heaven's  most  kind 


•  The  late  R<  L  Baxter,  D.  D. 


168  MY     BROTHER. 

XXXII. 

But  he  was  call'd  to  leave  her  for  awhile, 

To  seek  a  home  in  a  more  genial  clime, 

Far  in  the  south,  where  nature  seems  to  smile 

The  livelong  year.     Her  soft  blue  eye  grew  dim 

With  pearly  tears,  that  gather'd  to  the  brim, 

And  overflow'd  their  fountain,  when  she  heard 

That  he  must  leave  her.     Who  could  comfort  him 

As  she  could  1     Yet  'twas  winter  ;  and  he  fear'd 

T'  expose  his  precious  one,  till  all  was  well  prepared. 

XXXIII. 

They  parted  —  full  of  hope — yet  griev'd  to  part ', 

Nor  knew  they  that  a  worm  was  at  the  core 

Of  that  young  husband's  rich  confiding  heart ; 

Our  mother  saw  her  son  not  long  before, 

And  her  prophetic  eye  discover'd  more 

In  his  wan  cheek,  than  other  eyes  could  see ; 

She  heard  his  "  trifling  "  cough,  and  o'er  and  o'er, 

She  caution'd  him  to  watch  it.     Only  she 

Could  see  his  danger,  who  had  nurs'd  his  infancy ! 

XXXIV. 

But  yet  she  dream'd  not  he  would  die  so  soon, 

Nor  dream'd  of  death  at  all ;  save  that  her  fear  — 

A  mother's  fear  for  her  own  precious  one  — 

Was  ever  whisp'ring  in  her  anxious  ear, 

That  death  might  come  again.     He  had  come  near, 

And  stricken  from  her  arms  so  oft  before 

Her  dearest  treasures,  that  his  lifted  spear 


N  V     B  10  .   n  E  B  .  169 

Afar  off  gleaming,  would  alarm  her  more 
Than  hosts  of  other   foes,  with   all    their    threaten'd 
power. 


XXXV. 

My  brother  never  saw  his  love  again. 
HejourneyVl  to  a  distant  land  —  to  die  ! 
I  must  not  speak  of  this  —  the  throbbing  pain 
That  settles  at  my  heart  — the  tearful  eye  — 
The  trembling  hand  —  the  thrill  of  agony  — 
All  warn  me  to  forsake  the  mournful  theme. 
We  heard  that  ere  he  breathed  his  parting  sigh, 
He  said  his  parents  soon  would  follow  him, 
But  that  his  u  dear  young  wife"  —  and  here  his  eyes 
grew  dim, 

XXXVI. 

And  faintness  seized  upon  him.     'Twas  a  thought 
So  full  of  deep,  heart  rending  agony, 
It  quickly  overcame  him ;  and  he  sought 
On  heavenly  scenes  to  fix  his  failing  eye, 
And  thus  with  Christian  fortitude  to  die! 
An  outstretched  arm,  omnipotent  to  save, 
Was  near  him  when  his  last  great  enemy 
Closed  for  the  mortal  struggle.     Then  he  gave 
His  parting  soul  to  Him  who  triumph'd  o'er  the  grave. 
14 


170 


MY     BROTHER 


XXXVII. 


His  parents,  ignorant  of  his  dying  state, 

Were  in  the  great  south  western  city,*  when 

A  letter  came.     'Twas  not  of  recent  date, 

For  it  had  sought  them  long,  and  sought  in  vain. 

At  length  it  reach1  d  them,  and  it  brought  new  pain 

To  their  still  aching  hearts.     It  told  a  tale 

Of  sadness ;  that  the  threat'ning  rod  again 

Hung  over  them.     Here  let  me  draw  a  veil ; 

To  tell  their  feelings  now,  all  words  would  sadly  fail. 

XXXVIII. 

But  I,  who  ever  hope,  hoped  even  now; 
For  I  was  with  them  when  the  letter  came, 
And  though  some  sadness  settled  on  my  brow, 
With  specious  words  I  strove  to  comfort  them. 
I  could  not  feel  that  he  would  die  —  the  same 
Delusive  flatt'rer,  Hope,  who  oft  before 
Had  lighted  in  my  breast  a  glowing  name 
When  all  had  else  been  darkness,  now  once  more 
Beguiled  my  willing  heart  with  too  successful  power. 

XXXIX. 

Swift  on  affection's  never  tiring  wings, 
Our  parents  flew  to  see  their  only  son  ; 
And  I  was  left  behind  ;  for  many  things 
Concurr'd  to  keep  me  from  the  dying  one. 
But,  in  my  grief,  I  was  not  left  alone, 

*  New  Orleans. 


MY     BROTH  B  I  .  171 

For  they  were  with  me  who  were  all  to  me, 
3fy  noble  husband,  and  my  darling  son  ! 
With  them,  how  could  I  ever  lonely  be  \ 

each  other  we  were  all  in  all  —  we  three  ! 


XL. 

My  parents  reach'd  at  length  the  distant  spot : 
Borne  to  the  earth  by  grief  and  sad  suspense. 
0,  God  !  O,  God  !  they  found  that  "he  was  not," 
For  thou  had'st  taken  him  !  thy  providence 
So  order'd  it  in  kind  benevolence  ! 
He  breath' d  his  last  before  the  wislrd-for  day 
When  he  expected  them  —  he  knew  not  whence 
They  had  to  come,  nor  what  a  devious  way 
The    white    wing'd.    messenger   that    bore    the    news 
would  stray. 


XLI. 

Urania,  goddess  of  the  sacred  lay  ! 
Come,  touch  my  languid  lips  with  holy  fire, 
Brought  from  divine  Parnassus  —  or  convey 
The  heart's  deep  feelings  to  my  sounding  lyre  ! 
'Tis  vain  —  'tis  vain  —  such  feelings  must  retire 
From  mortal  view!     Again  I  draw  the  veil 
Over  these  parents'  hearts.     It  would  require 
A  more  than  mortal  tongue  to  tell  the  tale 
Of  all  their  high   wrought   feelings  —  mortal  speech 
would  fail. 


172  MY     BROTHER 


XLII. 


'Tis  sad  when  those  we  love  cannot  be  near 
Our  dying  bed ;  and  yet  it  saves  much  pain. 
The  last  farewell  that  falls  upon  the  ear  — 
The  tears  that  mourners  seek  to  hide,  in  vain  — 
The  bursting  sobs  they  cannot  quite  restrain  — 
These  wring  the  heart.     Now,  when  we  truly  know 
That  friends  were  near,  a  sympathizing  train, 
Who  sooth'd  our  dying  one,  when  faint  and  low, 
O,  surely  in  our  hearts  sweet  gratitude  must  glow! 

XLIII. 

God's  providence  had  led  his  footsteps,  where 

He  found  the  kindest  friends.     A  stranger  he, 

Yet  taken  to  their  bosoms  !     Far  and  near, 

My  father's  children  find  his  name  a  key 

Unlocking  many  hearts.     I  'd  rather  be 

The  child  of  such  a  father,  than  of  one 

Who  'd  leave  the  wealth  of  India  to  me  ! 

They  heard  my  brother's  name,  and  there  were  none 

Who  open'd  not  their  doors  to  my  dear  father's  son. 


XLIV. 

God  bless  them  evermore !  and  he  will  bless 
With  all  the  choice  expressions  of  his  love, 
Those  who  befriend  the  stranger  in  distress. 
There  is  a  God  in  Heaven,  whose  bowels  move 


MY     BROTHER.  179 


With  gentle  pity  ;  and  lie  must  approve, 
Whene'er  his  creatures  pity  and  relieve 
The  way-worn  sutlerer!      Then  from  above 
Our  God  will  smile  on  those  who  thus  did  give 
Their  tender  love  to  one  who  had  not  long  to  live. 


XLV. 

Now,  when  tlT  afflicted  parents  weeping  came, 
Those  noble  friends  shed  with  them  tear  for  tear, 
And  thus  most  kindly  did  their  love  proclaim 
For  him  whom  they  had  laid  upon  his  bier 
With  aching  hearts.     O,  many  a  fervent  prayer, 
While  with  most  tender  tears  my  cheeks  are  wet, 
Ascends  to  Heaven  for  them.     May  Jesus  hear  ! 
And  may  my  heart  within  me  cease  to  beat, 
If  ever  I  their  love  to  one  I  loved  forjret  ! 


- 


Charleston,  July  12,  1841. 
14* 


PASSING    UNDER   THE    ROD. 


"  It  was  the  custom  of  the  Jews  to  select  the  tenth  of  their  sheep 
after  this  manner.  The  lambs  were  separated  from  their  dams,  and 
enclosed  in  a  sheepcote,  with  only  one  narrow  way  out :  the  dams  were 
at  the  entrance.  On  opening  the  gate,  the  lambs  hastened  to  join  their 
darns,  and  a  man  placed  at  the  entrance  with  a  rod  dipped  in  ochre, 
touched  every  tenth  lamb,  and  so  marked  it  with  his  rod,  saying  — 'let 

THIS  BE  HOLY.'  "' 

"  And  I  will  cause  you  to  pass  under  the  rod,  and  I  will  bring  you 
into  the  bond  of  the  covenant."— Ezk.  xx  :  37. 

I  saw  the  young  bride,  in  her  beauty  and  pride, 

Bedeck'd  in  her  snowy  array ; 
And  the  bright  flush  of  joy  mantled  high  on  her  cheek, 

And  the  future  look'd  blooming  and  gay : 
And  with  woman's  devotion  she  laid  her  fond  heart 

At  the  shrine  of  idolatrous  love, 
And  she  anchor'd  her  hopes  to  this  perishing  earth, 

By  the  chain  which  her  tenderness  wove. 
But  I  saw  when  those  heartstrings  were   bleeding  and 
torn, 

And  the  chain  had  been  sever' d  in  two, 
She  had  changed  her  white  robes  for  the  sables  of 
grief, 


PA!  17.") 

And  her  bloom  for  the  paleness  o(  wo  ! 

But  the  Healer  was  there,  pouring  balm  on  her  heart, 

And  wiping  the  tears  from  her  e\  i 
And  he  strengthened  the  chain  he  had  broken  in  twain. 

And  fasten'd  it  firm  to  the  skies! 
There  had  whisper'd  a  voice  —  'twas  the  voice  of  her 

God, 
M  1  love  thee  —  I  love  thee  — pass  under  the  rod  !  " 

I  saw  the  young  mother  in  tenderness  bend 

O'er  the  couch  of  her  slumbering  boy, 
And   she   kissed   the  soft  lips  as  they  murmur'd  her 
name, 

While  the  dreamer  lay  smiling  in  joy. 
O,  sweet  as  a  rose  bud  encircled  with  dew, 

When  its  fragrance  is  flung  on  the  air, 
So  fresh  and  so  bright  to  that  mother  he  seem'd, 

As  he  lay  in  his  innocence  there. 
But  I  saw  when  she  gazed  on  the  same  lovely  form, 

Pale  as  marble,  and  silent,  and  cold, 
But  paler  and  colder  her  beautiful  boy, 

And  the  tale  of  her  sorrow  was  told  ! 
But  the  Healer  was  there  who  had  stricken  her  heart, 

And  taken  her  treasure  away, 
To  allure  her  to  Heaven  he  has  placed  it  on  high, 

And  the  mourner  will  sweetly  obey. 
There  had  whisper'd  a  voice  —  'twas  the  voice  of  her 

God, 
"  I  love  thee  —  I  love  thee — pass  under  the  rod!  " 

the  fond  brother,  with  glances  of  love, 
zing  down  on  a  gentle  young  girl, 
And  she  hung  on  his  arm,  and  breath'd  soft  in  his  ear, 


176  PASSING     UNDER     THE     ROD. 

As  he  play'd  with  each  graceful  curl. 
O,  he  loved  the  sweet  tones  of  her  silvery  voice, 

Let  her  use  it  in  sadness  or  glee  ; 
And  he  'd  clasp  his  brave   arms  round  her  delicate 
form, 

As  she  sat  on  her  brother's  knee. 
But  I  saw  when  he  gazed  on  her  death-stricken  face, 

And  she  breath' d  not  a  word  in  his  ear  ; 
And  he  clasp'd  his  brave  arms  round  an  icy  cold  form, 

And  he  moisten'd  her  cheek  with  a  tear. 
But  the  Healer  was  there,  and  he  said  to  him  thus  — 

"  Grieve  not  for  thy  sister's  short  life," 
And  he  gave  to  his  arms  still  another  fair  girl, 

And  he  made  her  his  own  cherish'd  wife  ! 
There  had  whisper'd  a  voice  —  'twas  the  voice  of  his 

God, 
"  I  love  thee  —  I  love  thee  — pass  under  the  rod!  " 

I  saw  where  a  father  and  mother  had  lean'd 

On  the  arms  of  a  dear  gifted  son, 
And  the  star  in  the  future  grew  bright  to  their  gaze, 

As  they  saw  the  proud  place  he  had  won  : 
And  the  fast  coming  evening  of  life  promis'd  fair, 

And  its  pathway  grew  smooth  to  their  feet, 
And  the  starlight  of  love  glimmer' d  bright  at  the  end, 

And  the  whispers  of  fancy  were  sweet. 
But  I   saw  when  they   stood,  bending   low  o'er  the 
grave, 

Where  their  hearts'  dearest  hope  had  been  laid, 
And  the  star  had  gone  down  in  the  darkness  of  night, 

And  the  joy  from  their  bosoms  had  fled. 
But  the  Healer  was  there,  and  his  arms  were  around, 

And  he  led  them  with  tenderest  care ; 


PASSING      UNDER     THE     ROD.  177 

And  ho  showM  thorn  a  star  in  a  bright  upper  world, 

*T\\  -far  whining  brilliantly  there  ! 

They  had  each  hoard  a  voice  —  'twas  the  voice  of  their 

God, 
M  I  love  thee  —  I  love  thee  — pass  wider  the  rod  !  " 

Charleston,  July  6,  1S-10. 


THE   JOY   OF    THE    CHRISTIAN 


There  is  a  joy  my  spirit  feels, 
A  holy  calm  that  o'er  me  steals, 
A  lighting  up  within  the  soul 
Of  glowing  flames  that  upward  roll  ', 
A  springing  of  th'  immortal  mind 
Away  from  earth,  to  joys  refined. 

Not  all  the  joys  of  wedded  bliss 
One  moment  can  compare  with  this ; 
Though  kindling  eyes  with  rapture  sweet, 
In  beaming  glances  often  meet, 
And  burning  lips  with  ardor  tell 
How  love  and  joy  together  dwell. 

Not  all  the  thrilling  happiness 
A  mother's  heart  alone  can  bless, 
When,  all  her  pain  and  anguish  done, 
Her  eye  beholds  her  first  born  son, 
And  sees  the  father  standing  by, 
With  smiles  of  love,  and  kindling  eye, 


THE     JOY     OF     T  H  B     CE1ISTUN,  179 

And  prints  the  first  maternal  k 
On  lips  unconscious  of  the  Miss, 
And.  full  of  gladness  onexpress'd, 

Close  clasps  him  to  her  swelling  breast, 
Where  springs  a  fountain  rich  and  free  — 
The  food  of  helpless  infancy  ! 

These  are  not  lasting.     I  can  say, 
How  joys  like  these  may  pass  away; 
And  leave,  where  all  was  love  and  light, 
An  aching  heart  —  a  gloomy  night  — 
A  memory  of  pleasures  gone  — 
A  sorrow  to  be  left  alone. 

But  often  in  the  darkest  night 

Springs  up  a  pure  and  brilliant  light ; 

And  even  in  the  coldest  day, 

There  comes  a  warm  reviving  ray  ; 

The  light  to  faith's  quick  vision  given  — 

The  beaming  ray  that  shines  from  Heaven. 

O,  when  the  soul  is  dark  and  drear, 
Full  well  I  know  that  sun  can  cheer  ; 
In  those  full  beams  with  deep  delight 
I  chase  away  the  gloomy  night, 
And  bask  in  those  unclouded  rays, 
The  glorious  sun's  meridian  blaze. 

I  nestle  in  my  Savior's  breast, 
O,  'tis  a  place  of  glorious  rest ! 
He  holds  me  near  his  bleeding  side, 
O,  ever  may  I  thus  abide  ! 


180  THE     JOY     OF     THE     CHRISTIAN. 

His  lovely  countenance  I  see, 

With  smiles  of  love  he  looks  on  me. 

O,  give  me  joys  that  will  not  die  — 
The  joys  that  point  above  the  sky ! 
The  only  change  that  comes  to  them, 
Is  when  they  glow  with  brighter  beam  ; 
Like  early  morn's  delightful  ray, 
That  brightens  into  perfect  day ! 

January  13,   1840. 


THE    PRAYER    OF   THE    WIDOW 


O,  thou  Almighty  God,  the  widow's  friend ! 
Where  lonely  ones  are  weeping,  comfort  send ! 
Thou  never  wilt  refuse  thy  tender  aid, 
Where  thine  own  hand  the  crushing  weight  has  laid. 
When,  sick  at  heart,  and  sad,  and  desolate, 
The  widow  comes  to  weep  her  mournful  fate, 
And  comes  to  THEE  — thy  Spirit,  holy  Dove  ! 
Flies  swiftly  from  the  Heaven  of  purest  love  ; 
And  O,  blest  Comforter  !  thy  wings  are  spread, 
To  shield  from  every  storm  her  fainting  head; 
And,  brooding  o'er  the  darkness  of  her  soul, 
Where,  swelling  high,  the  waves  of  anguish  roll, 
Thy  sov'reign  power  from  its  chaos  brings 
Pure  peaceful  joy,  and  ever-healing  springs. 

Then  may  the  solitary  sing  for  joy  ; 
For  hours  like  these  taste  not  of  earth's  alloy  ; 
Affliction's  fire  the  gold  has  purified, 
And  blest  are  they  whose  hopes  may  thus  be  tried. 
O,  God !  while  tears  unbidden  freely  start, 
Here  would  I  lay  my  crush'd  and  bleeding  heart  j 

15 


182      THE  TRAYER  OF  THE  WIDOW. 

I  bless  thee  that  thine  own  soft  hands  are  here, 
To  staunch  the  wounds,  and  still  each  throbbing  fear. 

The  human  heart,  sore  wounded  oft  in  vain, 
Grows  callous,  and  insensible  to  pain, 
All  cicatrized,  it  hardens  with  the  blow 
Which  lays  its  fairest  hopes  and  prospects  low ; 
But  softer  grows  the  heart  whose  wounds  are  heal'd 
By  Gilead's  balm,  sweet  cure  from  Heaven  reveal'd. 

If  purest  joys  must  from  affliction  spring, 
Then  welcome  grief,  and  lonely  sorrowing ! 
A  few  brief  years  at  most  shall  pass,  before 
Sorrow  shall  cease,  and  grief  shall  be  no  more. 
I  would  not  always  live  this  dying  life, 
Where  joys  and  sorrows  keep  perpetual  strife  ; 
But  if  I  must  a  toil-worn  pilgrim  be, 
O,  Savior !  give  me  tears  —  then  rest  with  thee  1 
For  if  life's  path  were  only  strew'd  with  flowers, 
I  should  forget  my  own  immortal  powers, 
And  stoop  to  gather  roses  all  my  way, 
And  lose  in  trifling  pleasures  life's  short  day. 
The  thorns  that  pierce  my  weary  wand'ring  feet, 
But  spur  me  onward  to  thy  blissful  seat, 
And  bring  me  sooner  to  my  blood-bought  home, 
Where  tearful  ones  must  surely  joy  to  come. 

The  bitter  cup  mix'd  by  my  Father's  love, 

A  salutary  medicine  must  prove  ; 

Not  nectar  nor  ambrosia  has  so  sweet 

An  after  taste,  the  longing  soul  to  greet. 

And,  holy  Father !  I  will  ne'er  refuse 

To  drink  the  portion  thou  for  me  shalt  choose  j 


THE  PRAYER  OF  THE  WIDOW.      1S3 

Whate'ei  betides,  thy  blessed  will  be  done, 
And  thou  shalt  judge  for  me,  Almighty  One  ! 

Trial*  are  mercy's  faithful  harbingen  | 
Each  stroke  from  God's  own  hand  a  token  bears  ; 
O,  let  me  heed  the  kind  paternal  blow, 
Afflicted  heart !  thy  Father  lays  thee  low. 

There  is  a  rock,  raised  high  above  the  storms 

Which  lash  Life's  ocean ;  not  the  thousand  forms 

Or  horrid  shapes  of  woe  can  e'er  ascend, 

Where  Jesus  lives  his  fav'rites  to  defend. 

Low  at  its  base  the  raging  billows  dash, 

And  clouds  grow  dark,  and  angry  lightnings  flash, 

But  firm  the  rock  of  ages  ever  stands, 

Securely  planted  by  almighty  hands  ; 

No  gath'ring  clouds  can  shade  its  precincts  fair, 

For  everlasting  sunshine  settles  there. 

O,  Sun  of  Righteousness  !   do  thou  impart 
To  the  deep  secret  places  of  my  heart, 
Pure  living  rays,  and  bright  effulgent  beams, 
To  shed  their  light  on  life's  fast  flowing  streams. 
My  aspirations  are  to  thee,  bright  Heaven  ! 
Nor  can  I,  will  I  from  these  flights  be  driven  ; 
Fain  would  my  wounded  spirit  soar  away, 
And  lose  all  darkness  in  celestial  day  ! 

New  York,  A u gust  13,  1840. 


■& 


NEW    HAVEN. 


O,  thou  beautiful  New  Haven  ! 

Do  I  greet  thee  once  again  1 
Scenes  upon  my  heart  engraven, 

I  review  with  pleasing  pain  ; 
Sweet  are  mem'ry's  scenes  at  last, 
Though  I  feel  that  they  are  past. 

Yet  —  though  gone,  I  will  enjoy  them, 

Why  should  they  be  dead  to  me  % 
Why  should  not  my  heart  employ  them, 

Savior  !  to  attract  to  thee  1 
Those  who  shared  my  earthly  pleasures, 
Thou  hast  made  my  heavenly  treasures- 
Sweet  New  Haven  !  well  known  places, 

Carpeted  with  brightest  green, 
Call  back  dear  familiar  faces, 

Part  of  every  mem'ried  scene  ; 
Could  I  breathe  thy  classic  air, 
And  my  loved  ones  not  be  there  1 


NEW    HAVEN.  185 

Every  murmur  of  the  fountain. 

Hidden  'neath  the  clustering  shade; 

Every  rock  and  every  mountain, 
Every  cool  and  verdant  glade 

Has  its  music  —  tuneful  numbers, 

Often  heard  in  midnight  slumbers. 

There  are  green  immortal  bowers, 
Where  my  dearest  ones  have  gone  ! 

Trees  of  life  —  unfading  flowers, 
Cooling  shade,  and  verdant  lawn. 

Living  fountains  murmur  there, 

Flowing  free,  and  sparkling  clear. 

Yes  —  thy  beauties  shall  remind  me 
Of  my  peaceful  home  on  high, 

Nor  to  earth  shall  mem'ry  bind  me, 
While  I  see  with  tearful  eye 

These  loved  scenes  of  dear  New  Haven, 

Deeply  on  my  heart  engraven. 

August  16,  lS-iO. 


DIALOGUE   BETWEEN   THE   SAVIOR 
AND   THE   MOURNER. 


MOURNER 


O,  man  of  sorrows !  who  art  thou, 
With  sadness  painted  on  thy  brow  1 
Why  is  thy  lovely  visage  marr'd, 
And  why  thy  glorious  forehead  scarr'd  ^ 


SAVIOR 


O,  Zion's  daughter  !     I  am  He 
Who  dwelt  with  God  eternally  ; 
But  pity  brought  me  here  to  die  ; 
You  see  me  wounded  —  this  is  why. 


MOURNER 


Dear  dying  Savior  !  can  it  be, 

That  thou  wert  bruised  for  guilty  me  1 


DIALOG  1  ls^ 


Art  thou  acquainted  with  my  grief, 
And  canst  thou  give  me  sweet  relief! 


savior 


Alllicted  one  !     I  pierc'd  thy  heart  ; 
From  my  own  quiver  sped  the  dart 
Which  brought  thee,  weeping,  back  to  me  ; 
The  wounded  to  the  Healer  flee  ! 


HOUR N E R 


O,  kind  Reprover!  may  I  dare 
To  tell  thee  every  anxious  fear  1 
Then,  Savior!  hear  my  mournful  cry, 
I  fear  that  all  I  love  may  die. 


SAVIOR. 


Unkind  !  ungrateful !  where  am  I  \ 
Can  God,  thy  Savior,  ever  die  1 
Though  frit  ad  and  lover  leave  thee,  yet 
1  still  am  near,  dost  thou  forget  \ 


MOURNER. 


Now  woe  is  me  —  I  hang  my  head, 
And  sad  repenting  tears  I  shed  ; 
Dear  Savior  !  canst  thou  me  forgive, 
And  bid  my  sorrowing  spirit  live  ? 


188  DIALOGUE 


SAVIOR 


O,  stricken  mourner  !  cease  thy  fear, 
More  tender  than  a  mother's  care 
Are  all  my  watchings  over  thee  j 
Then,  lone  one  !  softly  walk  with  me. 

September  6,  1840. 


CHASTENING,    A   PROOF    OF   LOVE 


"  But  thou  hast  been  weary  of  me,  0.  Israel  !  •' 

I  was  wearj'  of  the  Savior, 

Turn'd  my  heart  to  other  love  ; 

Deeply  grriev'd  at  my  behavior, 
Soon  he  call'd  me  from  above  ; 

Drew  me  gently. 
Bound  me  with  the  cords  of  love. 

This  delightful  bondage  breaking, 
So-  epa  roam'd  away  ; 

He,  in  grief  at  my  forsaking, 
Folio  wM  me  the  livelong  day  ; 

Woo'd  me  Bwcetly, 
Words  of  love  I  heard  him  say. 

In  his  garden  I  was  sleeping, 
Tii  ior  me  ; 

On  his  head  night-dews  were  weeping, 
Yet  he  called  me  tenderly, 


190    CHASTENING,  A  PROOF  OF  LOVE. 

"  My  beloved ! 
Come,  my  fair  one !   come  to  me  !  " 

Yet  I  left  this  heavenly  Lover, 
Though  his  lips  like  lilies  were  ; 

Once  again  became  a  rover, 
Turned  away  from  one  so  fair  ; 

Still  he  follow'd  — 
Watch'd  me  with  untiring  care. 

Last  of  all  he  sent  in  sorrow, 
Call'd  my  idols  all  away ; 

For  the  sake  of  bright  to-morrow, 
Darken'd  all  my  joys  to-day  ; 

And  he  whisper' d, 
"  Come,  my  fair  one  !  come  away  ! 

"  I  'm  in  all  thy  griefs  a  sharer, 
Thy  afflictions  all  are  mine ; 

'Tis,  my  love  !  to  draw  thee  nearer 
To  my  heart,  I  'm  breaking  thine  ; 

I  have  won  thee, 
Won  thy  heart  by  love  divine ! 

"  'Tis  in  mercy  I  have  pain'd  thee, 
Wand'rer  in  a  desert  wild ; 

Now  I  know  that  I  have  gain'd  thee, 
O,  my  love  !  my  undefiled  !  " 

Thus  he  soothed  me, 
With  his  accents  sweet  and  mild. 

Now  I  follow  where  he  leads  me, 
I  am  his,  and  he  is  mine  ; 


c  n  a  s  t  e  n  i  n  G ,    a    r  R  0  0  F    OF    LOVE.        191 

With  the  richest  love  he  feeds  me, 
While  upon  him  I  recline  ; 

Grazing  upward, 
On  his  eyes  I  fasten  mine  ! 

February  2,  1840. 


TO    DIE    IS    GAIN." 


Draw  nigh,  thou  long  expected  hour  ! 

O,  come,  and  make  me  free ! 
My  God  !  I  would  not  always  thus 

A  fetter'd  prisoner  be  ! 

My  spirit  longs  to  soar  away, 
But,  ah  !  this  mighty  chain 

From  which  I  struggle  to  escape, 
Binds  me  to  earth  again. 

Time  after  time  thy  sov'reign  power 
Has  some  strong  link  removed, 

And  I  have  nearer  seem'd  to  Heaven, 
And  more  my  Savior  loved. 

But  still  in  weakness  fetter'd  thus, 

How  can  I  rise  to  thee  ] 
Draw  nigh,  thou  long  expected  hour, 

And  set  the  pris'ner  free  ! 

June  6,  1840. 


ON    A    FLO  \Y  E  K 


Plucked  from  the  crave   of   Mrs.  C B .  the  wife  of   Lieut. 

B ,  and  daughter  of  Col.  V ,  who  died  at  Fort  Towson, 

Ark.  Ter. 

I  saw  a  beauteous  little  flower, 

Which  grew  upon  a  grave, 
'Twas  pluck'd  from  its  own  proud  stem,  which 
long'd 

Its  darling  flower  to  save. 
And  a  tiny  bud  was  borne  away 

With  the  lovely  parent  flower  ; 
But  a  careful  hand  that  loved  them  well, 

Has  kept  them  till  this  hour. 

The  plant  which  lost  them  hung  its  head, 

And  droop'd  for  many  a  day  ; 
But  the  gentle  breeze  and  the  beaming  Min 

Prevented  its  decay. 
It  would  have  died  had  not  the  friend 

Who  gave  those  beauteous  flov 
Water'd  it  oft  with  refreshing  dew, 

And  gentle  summer  show 
16 


194  ON     A    FLOWER. 

O,  why  didst  thou  droop  and  hang  thy  head, 

Bereaved  and  desolate  one  1 
Is  not  thy  flower  far  more  prized 

Than  when  it  was  thine  own  1 
When  on  thy  stem  it  gaily  grew, 

It  was  admired  and  loved  ; 
But  many  a  rude  and  chilling  hlast 

The  trembling  flow'ret  moved. 

Now  it  is  kept  with  tender  care, 

And  many  a  friendly  eye 
Has  gazed  at  the  beautiful  sever'd  branch, 

With  a  tear  of  sympathy 
For  thee  —  bereav'd  and  drooping  plant, 

The  tears  were  shed  for  thee  ! 
They  would  not  weep  for  thy  lovely  flower, 

In  such  kind  custody. 

'Tis  guarded  well  by  one  you  love, 

And  kept  with  watchful  care  ; 
And  no  rude  hand  may  ever  touch 

That  flower  to  thee  so  dear. 
And  the  hour  comes  on  when  thou  must  die, 

How  soon  that  hour  may  be  ! 
Now  is  it  not  better  thy  beautiful  branch 

Should  first  be  removed  from  thee  1 

As  thus  I  gazed  on  the  treasured  flower 

That  grew  on  a  lonely  grave, 
I  thought  of  the  silent  sleeper  there, 

Whom  no  earthly  love  could  save  ; 
And  of  him  who  gladly  would  have  died 

For  her  who  was  taken  away, 


i 


ON     A     FLOWER.  195 

Who  bow'd  his  head  to  the  stormy  blast, 
And  droop'd  for  many  a  day. 

O,  why  didst  thou  droop  and  hang  thy  head, 

BereavM  and  desolate  one  \ 
I  know  from  thy  loved  and  cherish'd  flower, 

'Twas  hard  to  part  so  soon. 
But  knowest  thou  not  she  is  far  more  safe 

Than  in  thy  sheltering  arms  1 
For  now  she  liveth  in  beauty  bright, 

And  fears  no  sudden  alarms. 


0,  knowest  thou  not  that  a  heavenly  Friend 

Is  keeping  her  safely  for  thee, 
And  myriads  of  bright  and  holy  ones 

Are  joining  her  minstrelsy  1 
And  the  flower  pluck'd  from  thy  darling's  grave 

Will  never  again  revive, 
But  the  blossom  torn  from  thy  throbbing  breast 

Shall  ever  in  beauty  live. 

And  the  hour  is  coming  when  thou,  frail  man, 

Shalt  lay  thee  down  and  die  ; 
And  who  can  tell  but  thy  sainted  love 

Now  waits  thy  coming  on  high, 
And  will  joyfully  greet  th'  unfetter'd  soul, 

Releas'd  from  its  prison  of  clay, 
And  herald  thee  on  through  fields  of  light, 

To  the  blaze  of  eternal  day  1 

Charleston,  Dec.  27,  1839. 


INVOCATION    TO    SLEEP 


Come  to  my  pillow,  gentle  sleep  ! 
And  hold  me  in  thy  calm  embrace  ; 
And  with  oblivious  wing,  efface 
The  stain  of  tears  and  sorrows  deep  ! 

Or  charm  me  with  thy  dreamy  spell, 
And  paint  a  smile  where  tears  had  been ; 
And  lead  me  to  the  pastures  green, 
Where  I  shall  find  Immanuel  1 

In  waking  hours  I  love  to  rove 
Where  Israel's  shepherd  feeds  his  sheep  j 
Now,  on  thy  wings,  O,  gentle  sleep, 
Come,  bear  me  to  the  spot  I  love  ! 

Farewell  —  sad  world,  farewell  to  thee  ! 
Let  me  forget  my  woes  and  cares  ; 
"  Still  waters  "  murmur  in  mine  ears  ; 
O,  to  those  waters  let  me  flee  ! 

I  '11  bathe  my  soul  in  liquid  love, 
And  freely  drink  the  crystal  tide, 


INVOCATION     TO     SLEET.  197 

Then  sit  me  down  the  wave  beside, 
Nor  ever  would  I  thence  remove  ! 

There  sweetly  sounds  Immanuel's  name, 
Borne  gently  on  the  breezy  air, 
Ten  thousand  thousand  voices  there, 
With  spirit-tongues  his  love  proclaim. 

He  leads  his  flock  —  he  loves  them  well  — 
He  takes  the  weary  in  his  arms, 
And  lures  them  by  his  dazzling  charms, 
Forever  in  his  fold  to  dwell. 

Come,  gentle  sleep,  I  feel  thy  powrer ! 
Thy  dreamy  spell  is  over  me, 
Farewell,  sad  world  !  farewell  to  thee  ! 
All  hail,  my  sleeping,  dreaming  hour ! 
16* 


HEAVEN. 


u  There  shall  be  no  more  death  —  neither  sorrow  —  nor  crying  —  neither 
shall  there  be  any  more  pain,  for  the  former  things  have  passed  away." 

Rev.  xxi.  4. 

There  shall  be  no  more  death  !     I  love  to  trace 

The  records  of  my  last  abiding  place  — 

A  mansion  bought  for  me  by  dying  love  ; 

And  —  blissful  thought  !  —  I  may  not  thence  remove. 

No  waning  strength,  nor  painful  heaving  breath, 

Shall  give  me  warning  of  thy  coming,  Death  ! 

I  shall  not  see  thee  fix  thy  baleful  eye 

On  those  I  love,  and  feel  that  they  must  die  ; 

No  arrow  from  thy  ever  outstretch'd  bow 

Again  shall  lay  my  dearest  treasures  low  ; 

No  thoughts  of  absent  ones  shall  there  intrude, 

Nor  hearts  be  broken  by  thine  entrance  rude  ; 

No  dark  abyss  of  grief  shall  open  there, 

To  drown  my  soul  in  billows  of  despair  ; 

I  shall  not  feel  that  I  am  left  alone  ; 

And  only  hear  each  well  remember'd  tone 

Sound  in  mine  ears,  like  some  low  sighing  moan ! 


B  E  A  v  E  N  .  199 

But  Heaven's  undying  choral  harmony 

Shall  ever  my  immortal  music  be, 

And  sweet  accordance  thrill  my  listening  car, 

While  tuneful  angel  songs  entranced  I  hear. 

Yes  !  there  's  a  land  where  death  shall  be  no  more, 
Where  sad  heartbreaking  partings  all  are  o'er! 
I  know  the  land  —  my  darling  ones  are  there  ; 
Come,  Death  — to  that  bright  world  my  spirit  bear  ! 

There  shall  be  no  more  sorrow !     I  shall  feel 

No  chilling  sadness  o'er  my  spirit  steal  ; 

And  there  shall  be  no  aching  heart  in  Heaven  ; 

No  mem'ry's  tear  j  no  trespass  unforgiven; 

No  restless  cares  fresh  gathering  every  hour  ; 

No  clouds  o'er  life's  dark  labyrinth  to  lower  ; 

No  longing  thirst  for  life's  immortal  stream  ; 

No  disappointment  ;  no  deceitful  dream  j 

No  heart  of  adamant  to  vex  me  there  ; 

No  secret  sins  to  fill  me  with  despair  ; 

No  viper  gliding  round  my  place  of  rest, 

To  fix  its  deadly  fangs  within  my  breast  ; 

No  midnight  watchings,  paling  friendship's  cheek  ; 

No  harrowing  fears  I  do  not  dare  to  speak  ; 

No  last  adieu  to  chill  my  sinking  heart, 

And  whisper  me  the  hour  has  come  —  to  part  ! 

No  sad  preparings  for  the  silent  grave  ; 

No  dark  funereal  group  where  willows  wave  ; 

No  deep  distress  to  bow  my  fainting  head ; 

No  sorrow's  anniversary  to  dread  ! 

Come  —  blissful  hour  !  when  all  have  pass'd  away  — 

Those  "  former  things"  that  darken' d  life's  sad  day, 


200  HEAVEN. 

And  safely  housed  shall  all  my  loved  ones  be, 
In  ever  brightening  immortality  ! 


Yes  !  there  's  a  land  where  sorrows  shall  be  o'er, 
And  I  shall  see  the  gath'ring  cloud  no  more  j 
I  know  the  land  —  I  languish  to  be  there  : 
Come,  Death  !  to  that  bright  world  my  spirit  bear ! 

There  shall  be  no  more  crying  !     Joyful  day  !J 

When  God's  own  hand  all  tears  shall  wipe  away, 

And  while  eternity's  long  ages  roll, 

Sweet  peace  shall  settle  on  my  ransom'd  soul. 

I  shall  not  be  a  wand'ring  alien  there, 

Estrang'd  from  God  —  as  I  am  often  here  ; 

Loud  hallelujahs,  ever  on  my  tongue, 

Shall  to  my  golden  harp  be  sweetly  sung  ; 

No  plaintive  notes  shall  give  their  mournful  sounds, 

Save  when  I  sing  my  Savior's  dying  wounds  ; 

Then  to  the  Lamb  a  louder  song  shall  rise, 

And  echo  joyful  round  th'  eternal  skies  ; 

And  souls  redeem'd  shall  praise  a  Savior  slain, 

While  bright  archangels  catch  the  pealing  strain  ! 

Then,  rising  high,  the  song  shall  swell  again, 

And  infant  voices  lisp  a  sweet  —  Amen  ! 

No  tears  can  fall  where  all  the  blest  employ 

Is  rapturous  praise  ;  and  ever  growing  joy 

Sits  radiant  on  each  angelic  face, 

While  glory  brightens  all  the  blissful  place  ! 

Yes  !  there's  a  land  where  tears  shall  fall  no  more, 
Nor  dim  the  eyes  that  often  wept  before  ,* 
I  know  the  land  —  my  sainted  ones  are  there  ; 
Come,  Death  !  to  that  bright  world  my  spirit  bear ! 


11  B  A  V  B  N  . 

There  shall  be  no  more  pain!  no  languishing! 
No  mortal  sickness  shall  its  anguish  bring  ; 
There   shall  be  no  last  agony  to  dread  ; 
No  ferer'd  brain  ;  no  restless,  aching  head  ; 
No  bounding  pulse  ;  no  deathlike  shiv'ring  chill  ; 
No  throbbing  heart  for  death's  cold  touch  to  still  ; 
Nocurd'ling  of  the  heart's  warm  vital  flood  ; 
No  heavy  dulness  o'er  the  eyes  to  brood  ; 
No  pallid  faces  stealing  round  my  bed, 

ring  to  rouse  me  by  the  softest  tread  ; 
No  closing  out  the  blessed  light  of  day  ; 
No  need  to  force  my  weeping  friends  away  ; 
No  painful  gaspings  for  the  thick'ning  breath; 
No  sorrow  —  no  sad  tears  —  no  pain  —  no  death  ! 
O,  these  shall  not  be  there  !  for  life's  sad  day 
And  gloomy  night,  shall  all  have  "  pass'd  away  !  " 
There  in  my  own,  my  dear,  eternal  home, 
No  baleful  sickly  blights  may  ever  come ; 
My  soul  shall  flourish  in  immortal  bloom, 
While  lies  my  body  mould'ring  in  the  tomb  ; 
And  this  poor  clay  shall  yet  in  beauty  rise, 
When  the  last  trump  shall  sound  its  glad  surprise. 

Yes  !  there's  a  land  where  pain  shall  be  no  more, 
A  land  of  smiles  and  joy,  blest  Canaan's  shore  ! 
My  Savior  and  his  ransom'd  ones  are  there; 
Come,  Death  !  to  that  bright  world  my  spirit  bear  ! 

Charleston,  August  2,   1840. 


TO    A   MOTHER   WITHADYING 
CHILD. 


Loosen  thine  arms,  fond  mother, 

And  let  thy  darling  go  ! 
Thou  wouldst  not  hold  him  down  to  earth, 

Amid  these  floods  of  woe. 

O,  clasp  him  not  so  fondly 

Close  to  thy  trembling  breast  ; 

It  is  a  spot  he  loves  —  and  yet 
'Tis  not  a  place  of  rest. 

There  is  no  love  nor  beauty 

Can  charm  disease  away  ; 
The  spoiler  comes,  and  rude  his  touch, 

Be  long  or  short  his  stay. 

Soft  is  thy  baby's  pillow 

Upon  thy  tender  breast  5 
Oft  have  its  gentle  heavings  lull'd 

Thy  weary  boy  to  rest. 


TO     A    MOT  I  II     WITH     A     DYING     CHILD.       203 

But  now  in  mortal  anguish, 

What  spot  can  ease  his  pain  1 
No  more  he  '11  nestle  in  thine  arms, 

Or  smile  on  thee  again  ! 

To  watch  his  painful  breathings, 

To  hear  his  parting  sigh, 
To  see  him  chill  and  motionless, 

All  glazed  his  beauteous  eye, 

'T  will  tear  thy  twining  heartstrings, 

'T  will  melt  thy  soul  with  woe  ; 
But  he  in  Heaven  will  drink  of  joy 

He  tasted  not  below. 

Look  forward,  weeping  mother, 

And  place  thy  darling  there  j 
Eased  in  a  moment  all  his  pain  — 

His  struggles  —  and  his  fear  ! 

O,  see  thy  lovely  cherub, 

Enraptured  with  surprise  ! 
All  new  to  him  the  glorious  things 

Which  charm  his  wond'ring  eyes  ! 

He  wears  a  robe  of  beauty, 

The  Savior  has  put  on  ; 
Tinged  like  the  gorgeous  clouds  that  lie 

Around  the  setting  sun  ! 

He  makes  harmonious  music, 
He  tunes  his  golden  lyre, 


204       TO     A     MOTHER     WITH     A     DYING     CHILD 

And  in  his  own  loud  welcome,  joins 
The  bright  celestial  choir  ! 

He  thinks  of  thee,  fond  mother  ! 

But  not  with  sorrow  there  ; 
He  watches  for  thy  spirit-form 

Beside  those  portals  fair. 

Now  —  look  again  in  pity 

Upon  thy  suff'ring  boy, 
And  choose  his  home  in  that  bright  world 

Of  pure  immortal  joy. 

Loosen  thine  arms,  fond  mother, 

And  let  thy  darling  go  ; 
Yes  !  bid  him  stretch  his  angel  wings, 

And  fly  from  pain  and  woe  ! 

June  13,  1840. 


AN  INVOCATION   TO   DEATH 


O,  Death  !  thou  art  a  welcome  friend, 

I  woo  thee  to  my  heart  ; 
From  all  I  loved  and  valued  once, 

I  'm  ready  now  to  part. 

This  voice,  attuned  to  notes  of  joy, 

Come,  hush  to  silence  now  ; 
And  in  the  stillness  of  the  tomb, 

Kind  friend  !  come  lay  me  low  ! 

These  hands,  now  warm  with  active  life, 

Fear  not  thy  chilling  grasp  ; 
Come,  Death  !  though  icy  cold  thou  art, 

Thy  hand  I  '11  freely  clasp. 

These  eyes,  now  fondly  glancing  round 

On  those  I  dearly  love, 
Come,  o'er  them  spread  a  filmy  veil, 

Nor  let  them  longer  rove. 

These  lips,  now  forming  words  of  love, 

ie,  give  one  palsying  kj 
They  '11  yield  thee  up  their  living  breath, 
With  joyful  eagerness. 
17 


20G  0,     SING     TO     ME     OF     HEAVEN! 

Come,  take  this  heart,  this  beating  heart, 

And  freeze  it  all  to  stone  ; 
And  let  my  soul,  my  longing  soul, 

Fly  to  th'  Eternal  One  ! 

Kind  Death  !  come,  take  me  in  thine  arms, 

And  set  me  wholly  free  ! 
I  '11  thank  thee  for  that  cold  embrace 

Through  all  eternity ! 

December  3L  1839. 


0!    SING   TO   ME    OF  HEAVEN! 


The  following  lines  were  written  on  the  occasion  of  the  death  of  Mrs. 
Ramsay,  widow  of  the  late  David  Ramsay,  the  son  of  the  Historian  of 
South  Carolina.  Her  maiden  name  was  Pinckney,  a  name  identified 
with  the  history  of  our  state.  The  lines  were  suggested  by  the 
scenes  which  took  place  at  her  death  ;  they  are  affectionately  dedica- 
ted to  my  dear  friends,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  H.  L.  Pinckney,  and  to  our  be- 
loved teachers,  the  Misses  Ramsay,  to  whom  my  father's  daughters 
owe  a  pleasing  debt  of  gratitude. 


O  !  sing  to  me  of  Heaven, 
When  I  am  call'd  to  die  ! 

Sing  songs  of  holy  ecstasy, 
To  waft  my  soul  on  high ! 


5  ,      SING     TO     ME     OF     II  i:  A  V  E  N  !  207 

When  cold  and  sluggish  drops 

Koll  off  my  marble  brow, 
Burst  fortli  in  strains  of  joyfulness  — 

Let  Heaven  begin  below!- 

When  the  last  moment  comes, 

O  !  watch  my  dying  face  ; 
And  catch  the  bright  seraphic  gleam 

Which  o'er  each  feature  plays ! 

Then  to  my  ravish'd  ears 

Let  one  sweet  song  be  given ; 
Let  music  charm  me  last  on  earth, 

And  greet  me  first  in  Heaven ! 

Then  close  my  sightless  eyes, 

And  lay  me  down  to  rest  ; 
And  clasp  my  pale  and  icy  hands 

Upon  my  lifeless  breast. 

Then  round  my  senseless  clay 

Assemble  those  I  love  ; 
And  sing  of  Heaven  —  delightful  Heaven  ! 

My  glorious  home  above  ! 


January  15,   1840. 


TO   A   DYING   CHRISTIAN 


Trembling  soul,  dismiss  thy  fear  ; 
See  thy  great  deliv'rer  near  ! 
Hear  him  calling  thee  to  come 
To  thy  long  expected  home ! 
Weary  wand'rer,  hasten  home  ! 

Dost  thou  fear  the  Monarch  pale  1 
Death  is  vanquish' d  —  hid  him  "  hail !  " 
Near  him  stands  a  mightier  King  j 
He  will  needful  courage  bring  : — 
Dying  Christian  !  why  not  sing  1 

Dost  thou  dread,  when  thou  shalt  die, 
Nature's  parting  agony  1 
Calm  as  evening's  ling'ring  ray 
Shall  thy  spirit  pass  away; 
Flutt'ring  soul !  no  longer  stay ! 

Dost  thou  dread  the  last  "  good  bye  ; " 
Dread  to  hear  the  choking  sigh  1 
When  thy  friends  around  thee  stand, 


C  II  I  E  F  E  S  T     AMONG     T  E  N     THOUSAND.       209 

Point  them  to  Emmanuel's  land  — 

That  delightful,  happy  land  ! 

Dost  thou  fear  to  leave  alone 
One  whose  soul  was  like  your  own  \ 
Friends,  ye  shall  not  parted  be  ; 
One  in  spirit  still  are  ye  j 
Soon  in  Heaven  both  shall  be ! 

Christians,  take  one  long  embrace, 
Look  your  last  on  each  dear  face  ! 
Hark  !  the  waiting  seraph  sings  ! 
All  the  air  with  music  rings ! 
Struggling  spirit,  spread  thy  wings ! 

January  11,  1840. 


CHIEFEST  AMONG  TEN  THOUSAND 
AND   ALTOGETHER   LOVELY." 


O,  thou  art  the  chiefest 

Among  ten  thousand  charms, 

And  altogether  lovely  ;  — 
I  speed  me  to  thine  arms! 

17' 


210         CHIEFEST     AMONG    TEN     THOUSAND 

Enraptured  with  thy  beauty, 
O,  Bridegroom  of  my  soul ! 

My  all  to  thee  I  offer, 
And  yield  to  thy  control. 

I  Ve  heard  thee  sweetly  wooing 

My  weary  soul  to  rest ; 
And  granting  me,  dear  Savior, 

A  home  upon  thy  breast ! 
O,  where  could  I  have  found   me 

So  soft  a  resting  place, 
Where  I  can  dwell  forever, 

And  feed  upon  thy  grace  1 

How  gently  glide  the  hours, 

When  I  repose  in  thee  ,* 
Like  clear  untroubled  waters, 

Fast  flowing  to  the  sea. 
To  pass  my  happy  moments, 

So  fast  my  days  shall  flee, 
Till  I  shall  reach  the  ocean 

Of  vast  eternity ! 

Then,  O  !  what  blissful  greetings, 

What  rapture  shall  be  mine  ! 
And,  best  of  all,  forever 

Shall  I  in  peace  recline 
On  thy  kind  arms,  dear  Savior ! 

Safe  folded  to  thy  breast, 
And  none  shall  ever  tear  me 

From  that  sweet  place  of  rest. 

September  6,  1840. 


GOD'S   LOVE    TO    ISRAEL. 


Jerusalem  !  Jerusalem  !  I  've  set  my  love  on  thee  ; 

O  !  foolish  and  ungrateful!  to  wander  thus  from  me. 

How  kindly  would  I  gather  thee  beneath  my  shelt'ring 
wings ! 

Jerusalem !  thou  knowest  not  whence  all  thy  safety- 
springs. 

0  !  well    do  I  remember  thee,  the   kindness  of   thy 

youth  j 
The   love   of  thine    espousals,   thy    faithfulness  and 

truth  ; 
When  thou  thy  Lord  didst  follow  in  a  land  that  was 

not  sown, 
In  a  bleak  and  howling  wilderness  —  unpeopled,  dark, 

and  lone. 

1  led  thee  through  the  desert,  and  through  a  land  of 

drought, 

And  from   Egyptian  bondage    I  brought  thee  safely 

out  : 
I   placed  thee  in  a  fertile  land,  where  milk  and  honey 

flov 


212  HYMN     TO     THE     TRINITY. 

And  now  thou  lovest  strangers,  and  after  them  wilt 

go- 
Jerusalem  !  Jerusalem  !  my  bowels  yearn  for  thee  ; 
For  cisterns,  broken  cisterns,  thou  hast  forsaken  me  ! 
I  am  the  living  fountain,  whose  waters  gently  flow ; 
How  couldst  thou  ever  leave  me,  so  far  astray  to  go  1 

0  !  when  wilt  thou  return  again  1  my  arms  are  open'd 

wide  ; 
Return,  backsliding  Israel,  to  thine  almighty  Guide  ! 

1  '11  lead  thee  to  the  pastures  green,  and  to  the  waters 

clear  ',  — 
Jerusalem  !  Jerusalem  !  the  friendly  warning  hear  ! 

January  18,  1841. 


HYMN    TO    THE    TRINITY 


In  intimate  communion, 
Dear  Father  !  I  am  thine  ; 

O  !  bless  thee  for  the  favor, 
For  love  so  much  divine  ; 


HYMN     TO     THE     TRINITY.  213 

And  though  afflictions  won  me, 

How  could  my  heart  repine  \ 
If  thou  wilt  love  me  ever, 

All  else  I  can  resign. 

0 !  keep  me  near  the  fountain 

Of  overflowing  love, 
To  drink  the  living  water, 

Till  all  my  soul  shall  move  ; 
Till  I  shall  prize  thy  favor 

All  other  things  above, 
And  thou  shalt  dwell  within  me, 

0  !  holy,  heavenly  Dove  ! 

I  cannot  live  without  thee. 

All  lonely  as  I  am  ; 
Thou  art  a  sweet  companion, 

0  !  lovely,  gentle  Lamb  ! 
Dear  Father,  Son,  and  Spirit ! 

Each  name  can  sweetly  calm, 
And  pour  into  my  bosom 

A  rich  and  healing  balm  ! 


MOUNT    AUBURN. 


Written  immediately  after  a  visit  to  that  sacred  spot.    Boston,  Oct.  3, 
1841. 

They  took  me  to  Mount  Auburn  —  where 

They  bury  the  lov'd,  the  brave,  the  fair ; 

'Twas  beautiful,  all  beautiful ! 

The  shaded  walk  —  the  grove  so  cool  — 

The  flowers  planted  there  by  love  — 

The  green  and  leafy  arch  above  — 

The  grassy  mound  —  and  the  polish'd  stone  — 

And  the  strangers  passing,  one  by  one. 

I  saw  it  all  —  yet  the  heart  would  rove, 

Borne  onward  by  deep  cherish'd  love, 

And  I  thought  of  two  dear  lonely  graves 

In  the  far  off  West,  where  the  willow  waves. 

O!  beautiful  Mount  Auburn  —  where 
They  bury  the  loved,  the  brave,  the  fair ! 
Death  always  chooses  the  sweetest  flowers 
When  he  comes  to  this  living  world  of  ours ; 
And  now  he  has  chosen  thee,  sweet  place  ! 
The  loveliest  part  of  the  earth's  fair  face, 


MOUNT    AU1!  0  B  N  .  215 

As  a  home  for  those  who  silent  sleep, 

Where  friends  may  come,  and  smile,  or  weep  ; 

For  Death  is  not  always  a  tyrant  king, 

Casting  a  gloom  over  every  thing  j 

Here  dwelleth  not  immingled  pain, 

For  those  who  die  shall  live  again, 

And  every  tenanted  spot  of  ground 

Shall  give  up  its  dead  at  the  trumpet's  sound ; 

So  /  a  mile  when  I  think  of  those  lonely  graves 

In  the  far  off  West,  where  the  willow  waves. 

0  !  Death's  own  palace  royal  —  where 
They  bury  the  loved,  the  brave,  the  fair  ! 

1  have  gazed  on  thy  sculptured  wrorks  of  art, 
Bearing  many  a  lesson  to  reach  the  heart ; 
The  tributes  of  love  to  those  who  have  died, 
Who  lie  in  earth's  bosom,  side  by  side  j 
Peace  to  your  ashes,  silent  dead! 

I  may  not  lay  my  humble  head 

In  such  a  highly  favor'd  spot, 

When  God  has  calFd,  and  /  am  not  ; 

For  this  I  care  not,  so  I  be 

Buried  beneath  some  branching  tree  ; 

But  could  I  choose  my  resting  place 

When  I  have  run  my  earthly  race, 

'T  would  be  beside  those  lonely  graves 

In  the  far  off  West,  where  the  willow  waves. 


O!  Death's  most  cheerful  garden  —  where 
They  bury  the  loved,  the  brave,  the  fair  ! 
The  sweet  birds  love  to  visit  thee, 
And  build  their  nests  on  many  a  tree  J 
And  in  some  cool  sequester'd  spot, 


216  MOUNT     AUBURN. 

They  sing  to  those  who  hear  them  not ; 

The  busy  bee  comes  often  too, 

To  drink  the  balmy  honey  dew, 

Where  flowers  bloom  in  beauty  rare, 

And  scatter  fragrance  through  the  air. 

O  !  bright  hued  flowers  !  how  can  ye  bloom 

So  very  near  the  cold  dark  tomb  \ 

O  !  warbling  birds  !  how  can  ye  sing 

Where  death  is  mark'd  on  every  thing  1 

Sweet  flowers  !  ye  speak  of  Heaven  to  me  ; 

For  bright  to  all  eternity, 

"  Transplanted  flowers  "  shall  bloom  above, 

Where  all  the  air  is  full  of  love. 

And  birds  !  ye  do  not  sing  in  vain, 

Ye  chant  of  Heaven  in  every  strain ! 

For  I  know  that  those  /  loved  so  well, 

In  Heaven  their  notes  of  triumph  swell ; 

They  sleep  in  those  two  lonely  graves 

In  the  far-off  West,  where  the  willow  waves. 


i 


THE    GIFT. 


Written  after   meeting,   in   the   Street,    Mi<s    C P ,  of 

Boston  :  who  was  going  on  an  errand  of  mercy,  to  carry  a  beautiful 
Peach  to  a  sick  friend. 


I  met  her  in  the  fragrant  morn, 

When  the  dew-drop  sparkled  on  the  thorn, 

And  the  eastern  blast  was  asleep  at  home, 

And  the  mild  south  wind  had  softly  come 

To  visit  this  beautiful  northern  land, 

And  paint  the  cheeks  by  her  warm  breath  fann'd. 

And  I  was  thinking  how  sweet  was  life  ! 
How  sweet  to  the  maiden,  and  the  wife  ! 
Aye  —  sweet  to  the  pensive  widow  too, 
When  her  heart  breathes  out  for  its  chosen  few, 
And  the  amulet  worn  on  the  throbbing  breast 
Is  love  —  the  purest  and  the  best. 

'Twas  then  I  met  a  queen-like  form, 
But  O,  that  heart,  which,  beating  warm, 
Sent  its  bright  current  to  her  cheek  — 
Would  that  I  could  its  praises  speak  ! 
But  were  I  lonely,  sick,  or  Bad, 
Her  voice  would  make  the  stranger  glad. 
IS 


218  THE     GIFT. 

She  held  a  basket  in  her  hand, 

Which  seem'd  to  have  come  from  fairy  land ; 

For  flower,  and  vine,  and  fruit  were  mix'd, 

And  all  so  tastefully  were  fix'd, 

I  thought  that  fairy  hands  had  done 

The  beautiful  thing  I  gazed  upon. 

And  so  it  was  ;  for  fingers  fair 
Had  placed  the  delicate  flowers  there  ; 
And  round  the  peach,  the  leafy  vine 
Had  made,  in  soft  embrace,  to  twine  ; 
Like  ringlets,  gracefully  falling  o'er 
A  blushing  cheek,  just  kiss'd  before. 

Ah,  tempting  Peach  !  'tis  well  that  thou 

Art  not  forbidden  fruit  just  now  ! 

For,  given  as  I  know  thou  'It  be, 

So  cordially,  so  gracefully, 

What  mortal  could  refuse  the  boon, 

When  offer'd,  as  thou  wilt  be,  soon  1 

Thou  art  going  to  a  sufferer's  couch ; 
He  '11  take  thee  with  a  gentle  touch, 
And  feast  his  languid  sight  awhile, 
As  though  thou  hadst  a  woman's  smile  ; 
And  then  he  '11  turn  his  grateful  eyes 
On  her  who  brought  the  blushing  prize. 

There  let  them  rest  —  they  '11  surely  see 
A  look  so  full  of  sympathy, 
They  '11  want  to  gaze  on  the  vision  fair, 
Till  they  are  dimm'd  by  a  gathering  tear ; 
Then  will  they  gently  turn  away, 


THE    GIFT.  219 

With  ■  look  that  speaks  what  the  tongue  would 

She  has  been  lately  at  the  side 

Of  one,  who  in  life's  morning  died  ;  * 

I  had  not  seen  him  since  a  slow 

And  dire  disease  had  laid  him  low; 

But  sure  I  am  his  beaming  eye 

Oft  thank'd  her  thus,  when  none  were  nigh. 

He  knew  the  heart  of  woman  well ; 

And  he  loved,  in  sweetest  verse,  to  tell 

Of  things  that  were  beautiful  on  the  earth, 

And  his  own  bright  thoughts  oft  gave  them  birth  ; 

O,  gifted  one  !  may  thy  requiem  be 

Thine  own  strains  that  linger  in  memory  ! 

But  now,  'tis  time  I  end  my  lay  ; 

The  potent  spell  has  pass'd  away  j 

I  could  not  see  that  offering, 

And  not  my  heart's  own  tribute  bring 

Of  thankfulness,  that  God  has  given 

Some  things  on  earth,  so  like  to  Heaven. 

Ah  !   call  ye  this  a  trifling  thing  1 

I  Ve  seen  the  smallest  flower  bring 

Such  a  tide  of  feeling  to  the  breast, 

When  the  heart  was  sick,  with  cares  oppress'd, 

That  now  seems  never  strange  to  me, 

The  wonderful  power  of  sympathy  ! 

Boston,  October  5,  lS-iO. 

•  Th<-  lat..-  lamented  B.  B.  Thatcher. 


THE  EVER  PRESENT  FRIEND. 


"  Lo  !  I  am  with  you  always,  even  unto  the  end  of  the  world." 

I  've  a  Friend  who  will  not  leave  me, 

Ever  walking  by  my  side  ; 
Other  friends  too  often  grieve  me, 

Coldly  smile,  or  harshly  chide. 

But  the  Friend  who  dwelleth  near  me, 
Is  my  Father  —  Guard- —  and  Guide  ; 

Ah  !  'tis  He  alone  can  bear  me 
Safely  over  sorrow's  tide. 

All  the  world  may  think  me  lonely, 

Pitying  eyes  upon  me  bend ; 
But,  with  this  companion  only, 

Can  I  need  another  friend  1 

Early  in  the  cheerful  morning, 

Though  I  seem  to  walk  alone, 
He,  the  proud  and  lofty  scorning, 

Walks  with  me,  his  own  - —  his  own  ! 


I  GO  TO  PEEP  ARE  A  PLACE  FOE  TOU,   221 

Or,  when  evening  darkens  o'er  me. 
Solitary  though  I  seem, 

Hope's  bright  visions  glow  before  me, 
While  o(  heavenly  joys  I  dream. 

.er,  dearer  than  a  brother, 
I<  my  kind  Almighty  Friend  ; 
Surely  then,  I  need  no  other, 
While  he  will  my  steps  attend. 


1    CO    TO    PREPARE    A   PLACE    FOR 
YO 


Mv  Savior!   is  my  place  prepared, 
And  for  my  welcome  hast  thou  cared, 

When  death  shall  call  for  me  \ 
When  I  shall  rest  beneath  the  sod, 
Shall  angels  bear  my  soul  to  God  1 

O,  Savior !  can  it  be  1 

Exceeding  grace  !   I  raise  my  eyes, 
All  wet  with  tear-drops,  to  the  skies, 
And  bless  thee  for  thy  love  ; 


222   I  GO  TO  PREPARE  A  PLACE  FOR  YOU. 

I  would  not  always  dwell  below, 
Where  death  has  torn  my  heartstrings  so  ; 
'Twill  ne'er  be  thus  above. 

And  yet,  'tis  well  —  'tis  well  for  me, 
And  well  for  those  who've  gone  to  thee, 

That  thou  didst  call  them  home  ; 
I  love  those  dear  ones  far  too  well, 
To  wish  that  they  again  should  dwell 

Where  I  in  sadness  roam. 

I  would  not  ask  them  now  to  change 

Their  peaceful  home  ;  they  'd  think  it  strange, 

And  't  would  be  strange  indeed 
If  I,  who  am  a  pris'ner  here, 
And  daily  shed  the  silent  tear, 

Should  mourn  when  they  are  freed. 

I  feel  not  as  an  exile  feels, 

When  lonely  sadness  o'er  him  steals, 

And  hope  forsakes  his  breast ; 
I  am  not  banish'cl  from  my  home  ; 
I  have  not  many  days  to  roam 

Ere  I  shall  be  —  at  rest. 

O,  blessed  Savior  !  now  I  see 
Great  preparations  made  for  me, 

In  mansions  bright  and  fair  ; 
For  thou,  with  sweet  attractive  art, 
To  make  Heaven  dearer  to  my  heart, 

Hast  placed  my  jewels  there  ! 

Boston,  October  11,  1840. 


TO    THE  REV.  J P .  OF  BOSTON. 


Written  after  reading  some  of  his  touching  poems,  particularly  the 
one  entitled;  ••  My  father,  mother,  broth' 

O,  tell  me  !  art  thou  not  life-weary  now, 

Thou  of  the  noble  heart  and  lofty  brow  ? 

Or  canst  thou  breast  the  waves  that  round  thee  rise. 

Till  eall'd  to  soar  above  these  clouded  skies] 

Thy  father,  mother,  brothers,  sisters,  all 

Save  one,  have  heard  the  heavenly  blaster's  call, 

And  hastened  to  their  dear  eternal  home  ; 

And  thou  art  left  in  this  dark  world  to  roam. 

O,  tell  me  what  on  earth  to  thee  remains  1 

For  weeping  I  have  read  thy  mournful  strains, 

When  thou  hast  told  of  sorrows,  such  a->  1 

Have  felt  —  though  I  had  not  the  power  to  die. 

When  death  a  welcome  friend  had  been  to  me  ; 

O.  would  not  death  be  welcome  too,  to  thee  \ 

Yet  there  are  loved  ones  round  thy  cheerful  hearth  ; 

O,  these  must  sweetly  bind  thee  still  to  earth! 

We  hold  a  chain  outstretch'd  from  earth  to  Heaven, 

own  love  to  weary  mortals  given  ; 
But  every  link  removed,  that  shortens  this, 
Draws  us  the  nearer  to  our  home  of  bli- 


224  TO     THE     REV.     J P ,     OF     BOSTON. 

The  moanful  sighings  of  the  wand' ring  wind 
Have  a  strange  power  to  move  my  inmost  mind, 
And  bring  sweet  thoughts  of  other  days  to  me, 
By  some  unknown,  mysterious  sympathy. 
So  has  thy  plaintive  lyre,  with  low  soft  tone, 
Pour'd  on  my  soul  a  music  of  its  own, 
And  waked  an  answering  chord  within  my  breast, 
Which  thrills  harmonious  in  my  hours  of  rest. 

Thou  gifted  Bard  !  whose  richly  gilded  thought 
Comes  like  a  ray  with  noon-day  brightness  fraught, 
And  cheers  the  heart  obscured  by  sorrow's  breath, 
Which  dims  all  brightness  in  this  world  of  death  — 
I  thank  thee  for  the  lays  which  thou  hast  sung  ! 
I  thank  thee  for  the  lyre  which  thou  hast  strung ! 
Those  thrilling  lays  — that  have  with  me  communed, 
That  deep  toned  lyre  —  by  holy  feelings  tuned. 
Still  let  thy  silvery  dulcet  tones  be  heard, 
Like  the  low  warbling  of  some  lonely  bird  ; 
Or  let  thy  full  toned  diapason  roll, 
Like  organ  strains  —  entrancing  every  soul ! 

This  weary  earth  is  full  of  discord  strange ; 

But  when  thy  harp  is  struck,  how  sweet  the  change  ! 

Then  tune  it  oft,  and  sweep  th'  obedient  strings 

Till  all  the  air  with  heaven-born  music  rings ! 

And  when  thy  hand  shall  wake  its  harmonies, 

To  bear  the  music  on,  let  Echo  rise, 

And  every  where  in  sweet  vibration  play, 

Till  /  shall  hear  it  —  far,  0,  far  away  ! 

Boston.  October  13,  1840. 


HEAVEN    ON   EARTH 


M  They  that  believe  do  eater  into  i 

Yes  —  even  here,  in  this  dark  world, 

We  enter  into  rest, 
If  shelter'd  in  the  Savior's  arms, 

And  pillow' d  on  his  breast  ! 

The  flowery  paths  of  earthly  joy 

Are  not  so  sweet  to  me, 
As  thorny  roads,  and  darksome  clouds, 

Which  drive  me,  Lord  !  to  thee. 

The  fragrant  flowers  —  how  soon  they  die, 
ScorchM  by  the  noonday  heat  ; 

Or  scatter'd,  lie  along  my  path, 
By  angry  tempests  beat ! 

Though  sore  afflictions  come  to  me, 

My  soul  is  satisfied  ; 
And  Longer  'neath  the  ckast'ning  rod, 

I  'm  willing  to  abide. 


226  HEAVEN     ON     EARTH. 

I  never  felt  as  now  I  feel, 

The  dark  world's  vanity  ; 
I  never  loved  as  now  I  love, 

The  Heaven  I  hope  to  see. 

How  calmly  can  I  travel  on, 
While  joys  and  comforts  die  ; 

And  smile  to  see  my  bosom  friends 
In  death's  embraces  lie. 

'Tis  well  with  them  —  'tis  well  with  me 
Why  should  I  shed  one  tear  1 

My  loved  ones  now  are  safe  at  home, 
And  I  shall  soon  be  there. 

Yes  —  even  here,  in  this  dark  world, 

I  've  enter'd  into  rest ; 
I  Ve  flown  into  my  Savior's  arms, 

He  bears  me  on  his  breast  ! 

Charleston,  November  15,  1840. 


THE    JOY   OF   SOLITUDE. 


Break  not,  my  solitary  heart ! 
Thy  sadness  will  not  always  last  j 
A  brighter  day  will  come  for  thee, 
When  all  thy  sorrows  will  be  past. 

'Tis  thus  I  cure  each  bitter  pang 

My  mourning,  lonely  bosom  feels  ; 

I  look  beyond  all  earthly  things, 

Where  faith  the  Christian's  home  reveah 

When  sorely  aches  the  stricken  heart, 
How  sweet  it  is  to  be  alone  ; 
Where  precious  tears  can  freely  flow, 
And  none  can  hear  my  stifled  moan. 

eet  Solitude  !  thou  art  to  me, 
Like  rivers  in  a  desert  waste 
To  faint  and  weary  travelers, 
Who  long  the  cooling  stream  to  taste. 

O,  ye,  whose  hearts  are  desolate  — 
Ye  tearful  mourners,  can  ye  tell 


228  THERE  REMAINETH  THEREFORE  A  REST 

Why,  when  my  heart  feels  loneliest, 
I  love  to  be  alone  so  well  1 

Is  it  because  e'en  friendship's  joy 
Recalls  the  mem'ry  of  the  past, 
And  lifts  the  dark  impervious  veil 
Which  death  has  o'er  my  pleasures  castl 

I  cannot  tell ;  I  am  not  vers'd 
In  the  heart's  deep  philosophy  ; 
I  only  know  when  sad  I  feel, 
Dear  Solitude!  I  fly  to  thee  ! 

December  5,  1841. 


"THERE  REMAINETH  THEREFORE 
A  REST." 


How  sweet  the  sound  of  rest, 
To  pilgrims  weary  of  the  length'ning  road  ! 
With  quicken'd  steps  they  seek  the  blest  abode 
Where  sorrow  is  exchanged  for  peace  and  love  ; 
So  flies,  with  eager  haste,  the  timid  dove, 

To  seek  her  shelt'ring  nest ! 


T  H  E  B  B    B  B  M  A  I  N  B  T  H    Til  E  B  B  F  01 

The  aromatic  gales 
Which  roach  us  oft  in  contemplative  hours, 
Bring  back  the  fragrance  of  "transplanted  flowers," 
And  give  delight  unmix' d  with  earth's  alloy  ; 

•els  the  wand'rer,  who,  with  trembling  joy, 

The  breeze  from  home  inhales  ! 

The  pilgrim,  parch'd  with  thirst, 
"Who  hears  o{  Heaven's  pure,  immortal  streams, 

es,  with  a  vision  bright,  in  all  his  dreams. 
The  river  flowing  near  the  throne  of  God  ; 
v  i  joys  the  traveler,  fainting  on  the  road, 
To  see  the  fountain  burst  ! 

Fair  beauty's  beaming  eye 
Grows  brighter  as  she  nears  her  father's  home, 
While  springs  the  vessel  through  the  billowy  foam. 
Bearing  her  on  to  sweet  domestic  love  ! 
So  looks  the  Christian  joyfully  above, 

Whose  hour  has  come  to  die  ! 

December  15,  1*40. 

19 


"EXCEEDING    GREAT   AND   PRE- 
CIOUS   PROMISES." 


"  In  a  dry  and  thirsty  land, 

Where  no  water  is," 
Thou  hast  given  us,  O,  God ! 

Glorious  promises ! 
Kneeling  at  thy  mercy  seat, 

Pouring  out  our  prayer, 
0,  how  sweet  it  is  to  know, 

Thou  wilt  meet  us  there  ! 

Sweet  the  words  the  Savior  said 

To  his  chosen  few, 
"  Ye  shall  not  be  comfortless, 

I  will  come  to  you." 
Be  not  troubled,  O,  my  soul ! 

He  will  come  again, 
To  receive  you  to  himself, 

Wash'd  from  every  stain. 

He  has  sent  the  Comforter, 
With  us  to  abide, 


BLESSED     ARE     THE     MEEK. 

Till,  with  all  his  chosen  ones. 

Wo  are  glorified ! 
Many  mansions  are  prepared 

Where  our  Lord  has  gone  ; 
Surely  to  that  peaceful  home 

Sweetly  we  are  drawn  ! 

Blessed  Spirit !   when  my  heart 

Feels  affliction's  sting, 
All  these  precious  promises 

To  remembrance  bring  ! 
Then,  as  beams  the  cheerful  sun, 

Shining  after  rain, 
When  these  floods  of  grief  are  o'er, 

I  shall  smile  again. 

December  27,  1840. 


'•BLESSED    ARE    THE    MEEK." 

Who  is  this,  with  brow  serene, 
And  such  a  peaceful  smile  1 

Surely  now  the  vision  bright 
Can  sorrow's  self  beguile  ! 


232  BLESSED     ARE     THE     MEEK. 

As  the  vision  pass'd  me  by, 
I  heard  an  angel  speak, 

And  the  simple  words  were  these  — 
0,  "  Blessed  are  the  meek." 

Then  I  follow' d  silently, 

Where'er  the  vision  led, 
Till  a  storm  seem'd  o-atherino- 

Around  the  fair  one's  head  ; 
Still  I  saw  the  peaceful  smile, 

And  heard  the  angel  speak, 
And  the  only  words  he  said 

Were  —  "  Blessed  are  the  meek." 

Onward,  onward  still  I  went, 

Where'er  the  vision  led  ; 
Till  I  saw  the  fair  one  laid 

Upon  a  dying  bed. 
Then  the  smiling  suffer er, 

With  voice  all  faint  and  weak, 
Spake  herself- — and  sweetly  said  — 

O,  "  Blessed  are  the  meek." 

Now  seraphic  grew  her  smile, 

The  angel  too  was  there, 
Waiting,  to  the  upper  skies 

Th'  unprison'd  soul  to  bear. 
Then  the  angel  said  to  me, 

u  If  happiness  you  seek, 
Ever,  ever  bear  in  mind, 

How  'blessed  are  the  meek,'  ': 

January  8,  1841, 


TRUST    IN    HEAVEN. 


••  What  though  some  cherish'd  joys  are  fled, 
Some  flatt'ring  dreams  are  gone  ?  *-' 

Come,  mourning  spirit,  come  to  me  ! 
I  have  wherewith  to  comfort  thee  ; 
I  have  a  charm  to  soothe  thy  grief, 
Which  ever  yields  a  sweet  relief ; 
I  cherish  it  within  my  breast ; 
It  there  abides  —  a  welcome  guest ; 
It  chideth  me  whene'er  I  weep, 
And  lulls  my  sorrows  all  to  sleep  ; 
It  brings  bright  visions  to  my  heart, 
"When,  one  by  one,  my  friends  depart ; 
To  all  who  seek  this  boon  is  given, 
'Tis  —  an  unwavering  trust  in  Heaven. 

The  woes  which  in  thy  pathway  stand, 
Are  there  by  Heaven's  high  command  ; 
By  God  commissioned,  there  they  stood, 
To  work  together  for  thy  good. 
'Tis  well  thou  couldst  not  pass  them  by, 
Or  bribe  them  from  thy  path  to  fly, 


234  TRUST     IN     HEAVEN. 

Till  each  had  pierc'd  thy  trembling  heart 
With  sorrow's  ever  pointed  dart. 
For,  when  thy  wounds  were  aching  sore, 
If  thou  had' st  never  thought  before 
Of  Him  who  wounded  was  for  thee, 
O,  then  He  'd  come  to  memory  ! 

And  if,  when  overwhelm' d  with  grief, 

We  fly  to  Jesus  for  relief, 

And  hear  his  gentle  voice  of  love, 

Telling  of  mansions  far  above 

These  often  overclouded  skies, 

Where  tears  no  more  shall  dim  our  eyes  ; 

With  cheerful  voices  may  we  sing, 

"  O,  tyrant  Death  !  Avhere  is  thy  sting  1 

0,  gloomy  Grave  !  we  fear  not  thee, 

Where  is  thy  boasted  victory  1  " 

Then,  drooping  mourner  !  raise  thy  head  ; 
What  though  some  cherish'd  joys  are  fled  1 
What  though  some  flatt'ring  dreams  are  gone  1 
Soon  shall  the  glorious  morning  dawn, 
Which  never  more  shall  darken'd  be 
By  clouds  o'ercharg'd  with  misery. 

January  10,  1841. 


L I  N  E  S 

rHE  DEATH  OF  ALONZO  CLAUDIUS  W1IITRIDGK. 
AGED  EIGHT  YEARS. 


He  came  into  this  world  of  care, 

A  precious  gift  from  Heaven  ; 
And  on  his  brow,  so  passing  fair, 

A  holy  kiss  was  given, 
cradled  in  his  mother's  arms, 

The  smiling  cherub  lay  ; 
While  gazed  the  father  on  his  charms, 

Pure  as  the  opening  day. 

In  after  months,  too  tenderly 

They  watch'd  his  gambols  wild; 
Ah  !   did  they  know  how  tenderly 

They  held  their  darling  child  ? 
a-  short  hours,  and  O,  the  change 

Their  sadden' d  spirits  feel ! 
The  tear  —  the  Bigfa  —  the  gloom  ;  how  strange 

Who  can  the  cause  reveal  ! 


236  LINES. 

Ah  !  look  around  —  the  mother's  arms 

No  precious  burden  hold  ; 
The  father's  heart  no  longer  warms 

With  ecstasy  untold, 
As  when  his  playful  infant  boy, 

With  outstretch'd,  dancing  hands, 
In  baby  language  spoke  his  joy, 

Or  utter'd  his  commands. 

Yes,  look  around !  in  that  still  place 

A  lovely  infant  lies, 
A  parting  smile  upon  his  face, 

The  smile  of  sweet  surprise, 
As  burst  upon  his  ravish' d  ear 

The  music  of  the  blest 
In  Heaven,  when  harps  were  tuning  there 

To  welcome  home  the  guest. 

But  hark !  a  softer,  sweeter  strain 

Of  infant  harmony ! 
O,  who  would  now  to  earth  enchain 

That  spirit,  pure  and  free  1 
Though  icy  cold  the  body  lies 

Enwrapt  in  death's  embrace, 
To  Jesus'  arms  the  spirit  flies, 

Burning  to  see  his  face. 

Charleston,  May,  1834. 


WI1  EN    SHALL   IT   BE1 


••  And  he  showed  me  a  pure  river  of  water  of  life,  clear  as  crystal, 

Ling  nut  of  the  throne  of  God  and  of  the  Lamb. 
••  In  the  midst  of  the  street  of  it  ■  and  <m  another  side  of  the  river.  w;is 
there  the  tree  of  life,  which  bare  twelve  manner  of  fruits,  and  yielded 
her  fruit  every  month,  and  the  leaves  of  the  tree  were  for  the  healing  of 
itions  '" — Rf.y. 

When  shall  I  taste  of  that  pure  river, 

Flowing  near  the  throne  1 
When  shall  I  drink  and  live  forever, 

Far  from  sorrow  flown  ! 

When  shall  I  bathe  my  fever d  spirit 

In  the  limpid  stream  \ 
When  shall  I  Heaven's  joys  inherit  — 

Ended  life's  short  dream  '. 

When  shall  the  tree  of  life  wave  o'er  me, 

Bearing  precious  fruit, 
When  shall  the  healin  -tore  me, 

01  ; 


238  I    WILL    TRUST   IN   THE    COVERT   OF   THY   WINGS. 

When  shall  I  taste  the  fruit,  and  never, 

Never  hunger  more  1 
When  shall  I  droop  no  more  forever, 

Pain  and  anguish  o'er  1 

Not  till  I  reach  my  home  in  Heaven, 

All  life's  journey  trod  ; 
Not  till  my  sins  are  all  forgiven 

By  the  grace  of  God  ! 


"I  WILL  TRUST  IN  THE  COVERT 
OF  THY  WINGS.  SELAH." 


My  heart  is  pain'd  within  me.     When  shall  I 
Away  from  all  these  mournful  sorrows  fly  — 
The  ills  of  life  — the  ceaseless  care  and  toil, 
Spontaneous  growth  of  earth's  polluted  soil  1 

How  oft  my  spirit  plumes  her  eager  wings, 
To  seek  a  refuge  from  these  tiresome  things ! 
But  like  a  wounded  bird,  she  strives  in  vain, 
Then  sinks  desponding  to  the  earth  again. 


TO     THE     ASHLEY     RIVER. 

Hy  heavenly  Father  !  may  my  refuge  be 
Thine  own  almighty  wings  overshadowing  me  ; 

Thy  shelter  o'er  my  struggling  spirit  cast, 
Till  these  calamities  be  overpast. 

Then  trusting  in  the  covert  of  thy  wings  — 

A  peaceful  shade  —  whence  healing  virtue  springs, 

I  '11  lay  me  down,  content  to  live  or  die, 

And  wait  till  thou  shalt  bear  my  soul  on  high. 

December  -22,  1840. 


TO    THE   ASHLEY   RIVER. 

Ashley  river  !  Ashley  river  ! 

Do  I  tread  thy  banks  again  ] 
Then  'twas  not  farewell  forever, 

Told  I  thee  with  throbbing  pain, 
When  I  sought  thee  last,  sweet  river, 

With  my  lovely  sister,  Jane  ! 

Was  there  not  a  gentle  warning 
Mwrmur'd  in  thy  gurgling  tone  1 

Clouds  were  gath'ring  o'er  life's  morning, 
Which  in  radiant  beauty  shone  ; 


240  TO  THE  ASHLEY  RIVER. 

Ah  !  I  felt  the  whisper'd  warning, 
I  should  tread  thy  banks  alone. 

Yes  —  alone  !  my  gentle  sister 
Here  no  more  shall  rove  with  me  ; 

How  I  trembled  when  I  kiss'd  her, 
Standing  near  our  fav'rite  tree  ! 

Still  I  dream' d  not,  angel  sister  ! 

'Twas  my  last  sweet  walk  with  thee. 

Evergreens  were  spreading  o'er  us, 
With  their  cool  embow'ring  shade  j 

Hoary  mosses  waved  before  us, 
And  a  graceful  drapery  made  : 

While  the  gliding  waters  bore  us 
Many  a  tuneful  serenade. 

Pearly  tears,  in  silence  starting, 

Told  the  heart's  deep  seated  gloom, 

While  we  brooded  o'er  the  parting 
From  our  early,  only  home  ; 

Ah  !  we  knew  not  one  was  starting 
For  a  distant  lonely  tomb  ! 

Now,  no  mosses  wave  above  her, 
Where  she  sleeps  so  far  away ; 

But  the  eyes  of  those  who  love  her 
Guard  the  precious  sleeping  clay  j 

Angels  keep  bright  watch  above  her, 
Till  the  resurrection  day. 

0,  sweet  Ashley  !  gently  gliding, 
Calmly  can  I  gaze  on  thee, 


ONE     WOE     18     PAST. 

For  my  loved  one  is  abiding 
Where  I  quickly  hope  to  be ; 

So,  each  deep  emotion  chiding, 
Still  I  love  to  gaze  on  thee ! 

December  16,  1S4-0. 


"OXE    WOE    IS   PAST." 

Written  after  the  death  of  a  friend. 

I  have  one  sorrow  less  to  bear, 
Of  those  that  shall  befal  me  here  ; 
Another  grievous  woe  is  past  ; 
Would  God  that  it  might  be  the  last! 

While  through  the  wilderness  I  go, 
With  feeble  footsteps,  faint  and  slow, 
My  dear  companions  of  the  way, 
How  gladly  would  I  bid  them  stay  ! 

'Tis  sweet  to  travel  arm  in  arm 
Along  life's  road  —  the  sweetest  charm 
Of  human  life  is  human  love, 
And  friends  are  b  from  above. 

20 


242  TO     MY    FRAIL     BODY. 

But  one  who  loves  them  more  than  I 
Calls,  "  Come  up  hither,"  from  on  high ; 
Then  joyfully  they  soar  away, 
And  leave  me  lonely  here  to  stay. 

Yet,  when  they  leave  me,  well  they  know 
That  I,  from  whose  embrace  they  go, 
With  swifter  steps  will  travel  on 
To  where  my  dearest  friends  have  gone. 

So,  smiling  as  they  take  their  flight 
To  regions  of  celestial  light, 
They  whisper  low,  with  dying  breath, 
"  A  short  farewell  " — then  sleep  in  death. 

January  1,  1841. 


TO   MY   FRAIL    BODY 

O  !   frail  and  falling  house  of  clay  ! 

I  've  loved  thee  far  too  well ; 
With  thee  I  have  not  long  to  stay, 

How  long,  I  cannot  tell. 


TO     MY     FRAIL     BODY. 

But  this  I  know,  thy  tott'ring  wall 

Which  now  imprisons  me, 
When  touch'd  by  Death's  cold  hand,  shall  fall ; 

O !  then,  I  shall  be  free  ! 

And  yet,  whene'er  I  part  from  thee, 

Mid  nature's  dying  pain, 
O  !   let  this  truth  remember'd  be, 

We  part  to  meet  again 

As  tender  rose  trees  seem  to  die, 
When  touch1  d  by  winter's  breath, 

And  for  a  little  season  lie, 
With  every  mark  of  death  ; 

Then  spring  to  life  when  summer  comes, 

And  wear  their  brightest  dress, 
To  beautify  our  pleasant  homes, 

Our  careworn  hearts  to  bless, 

So  shalt  thou  hear  the  trumpet's  sound, 

And  leave  thy  lowly  grave, 
Whether  thou  sleepest  under  ground, 

Or  'neath  the  rolling  wave. 

Then  still  I'll  love  thee,  house  of  clay! 

But  not  with  former  pride  ; 
For  not  until  the  last  great  day 

Shalt  thou  be  glorified  ! 

January  4-,  1841. 


A    HYMN    FOR    THE    AFFLICTED 


Wounded  within  me  is  my  heart, 

I  mourn  and  sit  alone  ; 
And  every  voice  that  comes  to  me 

Breathes  out  a  plaintive  tone. 

Ah  me  !  how  can  I  longer  live 

Where  all  is  desolate  i 
I  wander  like  a  lonely  bird, 

Bereaved  of  its  mate. 

0  !  would  that  I  had  died  with  thee, 

My  dear,  my  early  friend  ! 
Then  deep  affliction  would  not  now 

My  mourning  bosom  rend. 

But  no  !     It  was  my  Father's  choice  ! 

1  bow  to  his  decree  ! 
He  loved  my  friend,  and  call'd  him  home, 

And  O  !    he  loveth  me  ! 

The  Angel  of  the  covenant 
Is  standing  by  my  side  j 


THE     BBB  B  A  V  E  D     FATHER     TO     HIS     SON.       24  B 

I  pray  thco,  soother  of  my  grief  § ! 

There  ever  to  abide  ! 

And  now  he  makes  the  storm  a  calm  ; 

The  waves  thereof  are  still ; 
My  peace  doth  like  a  river  flow,  — 

/  love  mij  Fat  Iter's  will. 

January  2,  1841. 


THE    BEREAVED    FATHER    TO 
HIS    SON. 

Dear  miniature  of  her  I  loved  and  lost, 
Come  to  thy  father's  almost  broken  heart ! 
Come,  lay  thy  lovely  head  upon  my  breast, 
And  let  me  smooth  thy  golden  ringlets  down, 
As  I  have  seen  thy  sainted  mother  do  ! 
Ah  me  I  those  dear  soft  hands  lie  mouldering, 
Now  clasp'd  upon  her  still,  unconscious  breast ! 

Would  I  could  sing  for  thee,  my  orphan  boy, 
As  I  have  heard  thy  sainted  mother  sing  ! 
O  !    we  shall  never  hear  her  sing  again  ! 


246   THE  BEREAVED  FATHER  TO  HIS  S  0  ^  . 

The  music  of  our  fireside  is  hush'd  — 

The  silver  voice  that  cheer'd  us,  now  is  mute. 

I  pity  thee,  my  boy  !  for  well  I  know 
This  mournful  silence  sends  an  icy  chill 
To  every  heart  within  these  lonely  walls, 
That  lately  echoed  to  angelic  tones. 
Methought  I  heard  thee  lisp  thy  mother's  name, 
As  she  had  taught  her  darling  boy  to  do  ; 

0  !   say  it  not  again  —  't  will  break  my  heart ! 

1  see  deep  sadness  in  thy  violet  eyes, 

As  though  thou  knew'st  thy  kindest  friend  was 

gone. 
Yes  —  she  is  gone  —  poor  boy  !  poor  orphan  boy  ! 
Too  soon  thou  'It  find  that  thou  art  motherless ; 
For  who  will  love  thee  with  a  mother's  love  — 
That  sacred,  changeless,  deep,  untiring  love  1 
She  loves  thee  still,  my  boy !  and  it  may  be 
She  watches  o'er  thee  now  with  tender  care, 
A  guardian  angel  to  her  own  dear  child ! 

My  wife  !  my  cherish' d  wife  !  my  bosom  friend  ! 
If  thou  art  near  us,  whisper  peaceful  words, 
And  teach  me  how  to  bear  my  Father's  stroke  ! 
If  ever,  'mid  the  swelling  tides  of  grief, 
My  spirit,  struggling  in  the  stormy  wave, 
Lets  go  her  only  anchor,  faith  in  God, 
And  blindly  plunges  near  the  dang'rous  shoals 
Of  proud  rebellion  'gainst  th'  almighty  will, 
Or  total  self-abandonment  to  grief, 
Then,  sainted  spirit !  bear  me  back  again, 


THE  BERK  A  V  ED  PATH  KB  TO  HIS  SON.   '217 

In    BOme  unknown,  mysterious  influence, 
Such  as  the  ministering  angels  use  ! 

O  !    sigh  not  thus,  my  dear,  my  gentle  boy  ! 
Nor  Let  the  sad  contagion  of  my  grief 
Infect  so  soon  thy  young  unconscious  breast. 
•Tis  strange  to  see  thee  gazing  silently 
Where  there  is  nought  to  catch  thy  infant  eye, 
With  downcast  look,  and  grave  abstracted  air, 
As  though  thou  hadst  th'  experience  of  years, 
And  wert  reflecting  on  the  woes  of  life. 
The  silken  fringes  round  thy  sweet  blue  eyes 
Are  almost  resting  on  thy  downy  cheek, 
And  thy  fair  head  reposes  on  my  breast, 
My  lonely,  sorrowing,  bereaved  breast, 
With  all  the  silent,  touching  eloquence 
So  often  felt  where  not  a  word  is  said. 
Thy  angel  mother  may  be  near  thee,  boy ! 
Communing  with  thy  untaught  spirit  now, 
And  teaching  thee  the  rudiments  of  thought. 

O  Death  !  thou  art  th'  ambassador  of  Heaven, 

To  wean  us  from  th'  allurements  of  the  world  ; 

May  not  thy  visits  ever  be  in  vain  ! 

The  storm,  the  calm,  the  sunshine,  and  the  cloud, 

Must  each  alternately  my  portion  be, 

And  all  to  me  their  sacred  lessons  teach  ; 

O  !  may  I  learn  the  varied  lessons  well ! 

The  youthful  stranger  in  a  foreign  land 

Soon  learns  to  know  where  happiness  is  found. 

Id  Pleasure  lure  him  to  some  shining  place, 
And  surly  Disappointment  meet  him  there, 


248      THE     BEREAVED     FATHER     TO     HIS     SON 

If  he  is  wise,  he  shuns  that  path  again, 
Because  the  meteor  sparkles  to  deceive. 
But  I,  a  stranger  and  a  pilgrim  here, 
Must  learn  the  same  sad  lesson  o'er  and  o'er, 
That  all  is  changeful  in  this  dying  world. 
I  clasp  a  shadow  to  my  foolish  heart, 
Then  weep  to  find  my  arms  are  empty  still ! 

0  !   could  I  but  remember  that  on  earth 

My  dearest  treasures  are  a  loan  from  Heaven, 
And  may  at  any  moment  be  recall' d, 

1  should  prepare  my  heart  for  each  sad  loss. 

My  darling  boy !  I  must  not  love  thee  so  ; 

Dear  miniature  of  her  I  loved  and  lost, 

I  '11  try  to  feel  that  I  may  lose  thee  too  ! 

Yet,  joyful  thought !   such  treasures  cannot  die, 

The  time  will  come  I  7/  find  them  all  again. 

January  4,  1841, 


WHERE    IS    THE    BETTER    COUN 
TRY! 


Where  is  the  better  country,  where  \ 
Ye  who  have  found  it,  lead  me  there  ; 
I  long  have  sought  a  happy  home, 
Yet  weary,  weary,  still  I  roam  ; 
I  Ve  tried  by  turns  each  pathway  bright  ; 
My  sun  goes  down,  and  all  is  night ; 
I  grope  my  way  in  sad  despair  ; 
Where  is  the  better  country,  where  \ 

I  catch  at  every  beaming  ray 
That  shines  upon  my  weary  way  ; 
I  'm  taken  captive  by  a  flower, 
That  blooms  and  withers  in  an  hour  ; 
And  yet,  whene'er  my  bosom  tries 
To  >hield  a  flower,  there  it  dies  : 
Away  the  withered  thing  I  throw, 
And  sadly  on  my  way  I  go. 

An  infant  in  its  cradle  smiled  — 
Its  look  of  joy  my  heart  beguiled  j 
But,  when  I  cra/.«-d  a  moment  more, 
Its  joyous  brow  was  clouded  o'er  ; 


250         WHERE     IS     THE     BETTER     COUNTRY  1 

Then,  sick  at  heart,  I  heav'd  a  sigh, 
And  turn'd  away  my  tearful  eye  ; 
How  vain  the  search  for  pleasure  here  ! 
With  every  smile  there  comes  a  tear. 

I  saw  a  shining  beauteous  thing  — 

It  hung  before  me  glittering  ; 

They  call'd  it  friendship,  and  with  joy, 

My  hand  I  stretch'd  to  seize  the  toy. 

It  proved  to  be  a  gilded  dart, 

Which,  ere  I  knew  it,  pierced  my  heart ! 

Then,  faint  and  bleeding,  thus  I  thought  — 

"  Experience  must  be  dearly  bought." 

I  saw  the  star-bespangled  sky, 
And  there  I  fixed  my  earnest  eye  ; 
One  star  grew  brighter  to  my  gaze, 
For  me  it  seem'd  to  shed  its  rays  ; 
I  thought  if  I  could  soar  afar, 
I  'd  hie  me  to  that  lonely  star  : 
Ah  me  !  'twas  but  a  meteor's  light ; 
It  fled  away  —  that  star  so  bright ! 

As  carelessly  I  roved  along, 

I  heard  a  soft,  delightful  song  ; 

I  turn'd  aside  to  catch  the  sound, 

But  no  sweet  songster  could  be  found. 

It  was  my  own  Canary  bird, 

Whose  faint,  receding  notes  I  heard  ; 

He  breathed  "  farewell "  in  every  tone  — 

The  cage  was  there  —  the  bird  had  flown ! 

A  beauteous,  meek  eyed,  carrier  dove 
Came  flying  with  the  speed  of  love  j 


WHERE     IS     THE     BETTER     COUNTRY?  251 

I  caught,  and  kissM  him  o'er  and  o'er, 
I  knew  the  bird  a  letter  bore  ; 
I  broke  the  seal  with  eager  hand, 
For  tidings  from  a  distant  land  ; 
But  ah !   I  shudder'd  while  I  read, 
It  told  me  one  I  loved  —  was  dead  ! 

The  falling  of  a  far  cascade 
Most  sweet,  harmonious  music  made  ; 
It  charm'd  me  oft  at  evening-tide, 
And  once,  by  moonlight,  there  I  hied  ; 
But,  when  I  reach'd  the  chosen  spot, 
The  louder  music  pleased  me  not ; 
'Tis  thus  with  many  things  I  meet, 
They  're  only  at  a  distance  sweet. 

Long,  long  ago  I  left  my  home  ; 

For  many  years  't  was  mine  to  roam  ; 

And  when  at  last  I  there  return'd, 

O  !  how  my  heart  within  me  burn'd  ! 

But  every  thing  I  saw  was  chang'd, 

And  from  my  home  I  felt  estrang'd  ; 

And  then  I  cried  in  deep  despair, 

u  Where  is  the  better  country,  where  1  " 

O !  he  whose  heart  is  fix'd  below, 
Finds  disappointment,  change,  and  woe  ! 
Where  are  the  never  clouded  skies  — 
O  !  where  the  joy  that  never  dies  \ 
Where  is  the  music  ever  sweet, 
O !  where  the  friends  I  long  to  meet  1 
No  more  earth's  changing  scenes  allure, — 
Where  is  the  land  all  bright  and  pure  1 


252  TO     A     MOTHER, 

The  land  where  all  is  pure  and  bright, 
That  better  land,  is  "  out  of  sight !  " 
And  I  must  journey  here  awhile, 
And  see  by  turns,  the  tear,  the  smile ; 
Yet,  even  now,  'tis  bliss  to  me, 
That  I  one  day  that  land  shall  see, 
And  joyful  wing  my  eager  flight 
To  that  sweet  country  —  out  of  sight. 

Charleston,  January  19,  1841. 


TO  A  MOTHER,  ON  THE  DEATH  OF 
A  DAUGHTER. 

Mother  !  I  've  news  for  thee  from  Heaven  ! 
Thy  daughter  boweth  near  the  throne  ! 
O,  canst  thou  not  for  her  rejoice, 
Though  thou  art  left  alone  ? 

Hast  thou  not  seen  her  lovely  eye 
Gaze  on  thee  through  her  glitt'ring  tears, 
Though  thou  didst  strive  from  every  ill 
To  shield  her  tender  years  1 


ON     THE     DEATH     OF     A     DAUGHTER. 

Mother!  thy  daughter  weeps  no  more, 
Fbr  all  her  tears  are  dried  away  ; 
Exhaled  like  dew-drops  from  the  rose, 
Beneath  the  sun's  bright  ray  ! 

Hast  thou  not  seen  how  cruel  pain 
Could  steal  the  roses  from  her  cheek, 
And  wring  the  moisture  from  her  brow, 
And  leave  her  faint  and  weak  \ 

Mother  !  thy  daughter  is  in  Heaven, 
And  pain  can  never  reach  her  there, 
No  sickness  comes  to  those  who  breathe 
That  pure  delightful  air  ! 

Look  up,  with  faith's  observant  eye, 
And  see  thine  angel  daughter  now ! 
I  would  not  wish  to  call  her  back 
To  this  dark  world  —  wouldst  thou  1 

"O!  no  —  O  !  no"  — I  hear  thee  say, 
ify  Savior  hath  his  promise  kept ; 

He  comforts  me;  and  yet  I  must 
Weep  on  —  for  Jesus  wept!  " 

"  But  let  the  youthful  Christian  go 
Thus  early  to  her  peaceful  home  ; 
Yes  —  I  am  willing  now  to  lay 
My  darling  in  the  tomb!  " 

Charleston,  February  14,  1841. 
21 


A   MORNING   HYMN 


Early,  early  O  !  my  God ! 

I  send  my  prayer  to  thee, 
Ere  my  heart  has  roved  abroad 

'Mid  scenes  of  vanity. 
Shielded  by  thy  tender  love, 

I  have  calmly,  safely  slept, 
Guards,  commissioned  from  above, 

Round  me  their  station  kept. 

Through  the  darkness  —  through  the  night 

Refreshing  rest  was  mine  ; 
Fire,  nor  sword,  nor  sickly  blight, 

Against  me  did  combine  ; 
But  revolving  hours  have  brought, 

Opening  fair,  another  day  5 
May  I  spend  it  as  I  ought, 

And  love,  and  watch,  and  pray  ! 

When  the  solemn  hour  has  come 
For  me  to  sleep  in  death, 


SONG. 


Jesus,  bear  my  spirit  home, 

When  fails  my  mortal  breath! 

Clasp  me  in  thy  faithful  arms  — 
Fold  me  to  thy  tender  breast  — 

Till,  enraptured  with  thy  charms, 
I  gently  sink  to  rest. 

Charleston,  February  14-,  Ml. 


SONG. 


I  remember  —  I  remember  — 

The  sacred  place  for  prayer  ! 
In  the  morning  and  the  evening 

Thou  wert  always  with  me  there  ; 
Lowly  bending  —  lowly  bending  — 

Retired  from  earthly  things, 
For  celestial  nights  preparing, 

We  plumed  the  spirit's  wings. 

I  remember  —  I  remember  — 
The  "  wormwood  and  the  gall," 

When  I  felt  that  thou  hadst  left  me, 
All  alone  to  stand  or  fall. 


256  HYMN. 

Lowly  bending  —  lowly  bending-  — 

I  told  my  grief  to  God, 
And  he  heard  me,  and  he  gave  me 

Submission  to  his  rod. 

I  remember  —  I  remember  — 

The  pleasing  "joy  of  grief," 
How  affliction  turn'd  to  gladness, 

When  my  prayer  had  brought  relief; 
Lowly  bending  —  lowly  bending  — 

Thus  may  I  spend  my  days, 
Till  with  rapture  I  am  singing 

Th'  eternal  song  of  praise. 

Charleston,  February  16,  1841. 


HYMN 


u  0  Lord  !  I  am  oppressed  —  undertake  for  me." — Ps. 

Lost  in  affliction's  darksome  maze, 

0  !  whither  shall  I  go  1 
Where  shall  I  find  the  peaceful  streams 

Where  healing  waters  flow  ] 


H  V  M  N  . 

Ify  soul!   wait  only  on  the  Lord, 

All  other  help  is  vain  ; 
My  wounded  heart  !   no  other  friend 

Tan  case  thy  throbbing  pain. 

The  Savior,  for  his  sorrowing  ones, 

WiD  surely  undertake  ; 
He  '11  clasp  the  suff 'rers  in  his  arms, 

For  his  dear  mercy's  sake. 

The  Christian,  'mid  his  sorrowing, 

May  evermore  rejoice, 
And  raise,  above  the  howling  storm, 

His  loud  triumphant  voice. 

Then,  Jesus!  Savior  of  my  soul ! 

0  !  undertake  for  me  ; 
Able  and  willing  as  thou  art, 

1  leave  my  case  with  thee. 

Since  I  was  precious  in  thy  sight, 

I  \e  known  thy  tender  love  ; 
And  each  event  that  comes  to  me 

Seems  calling  me  above. 

Well,  let  me  go  ;  I  long  to  go 
Where  those  I  loved  have  gone  ; 

They,  through  the  might  of  Him  who  died, 
Have  won  the  victor's  crown. 

O !  't  will  be  sweet  with  them  to  join 
In  one  unwearied  song, 


258  THE     BENDED     KNEE. 

And,  through  our  blest  eternity 
The  joyful  notes  prolong. 

Dear  Savior !  when  I  leave  the  world, 
And  rise  to  dwell  with  thee, 

I  '11  praise  thee  with  a  seraph's  tongue, 
And  never  wearied  be  ! 

February  17,  1841. 


THE   BENDED   KNEE. 

Pray  on  —  pray  on  —  poor  suff'ring  soul! 
Why  wilt  thou  not  thy  burdens  roll 

On  Him  who  died  for  thee  1 
O  !  cease  not  till  thy  dying  day, 
Beneath  his  cross,  to  watch  and  pray  j  — 
Live  on  thy  bended  knee  ! 

O  !  pale  faced  mourner  !  raise  thy  head, 
And  weep  not  for  the  sainted  dead 

Who  've  left  this  world  and  thee ; 
Remember  they  are  angels  now  ; 
And  God  will  teach  thy  will  to  bow, 

While  on  thy  bended  knee. 


THE     HOLY     BIB  L.E  . 

me,  bring  the  noblest  offering  — 

Thy  broken  heart  ;  the  Heavenly    Kin? 

Will  surely  smile  on  thee; 
He  dearly  loves  the  broken  heart; 
And  thou  shalt  feel  thy  woes  depart, 

While  on  thy  bended  knee. 

Now  prostrate  lie,  and  kiss  the  rod  ; 
The  secret  purpose  of  thy  God 

May  not  be  known  to  thee ; 
But  in  the  ocean  of  his  love 
Drown  all  thy  fears,  and  look  above, 

Still  on  thy  bended  knee. 

February  17,  18-il. 


THE   HOLY    BIBLE 


My  God  !  I  bless  thee  for  thy  word, 

I  clasp  it  to  my  breast ; 
Of  all  thy  glorious  gifts  to  man. 

The  noblest,  and  the  best ! 

When  I  am  idling-  in  the  way. 
And  danger  stalks  abroad. 


'260  THE     HOLY    BIBLE. 

It  thunders  in  my  startled  ear  — ■ 
"  Prepare  to  meet  thy  God  !  " 

Whene'er  I  stray,  its  beacon  light 
Shines  through  the  gloom  afar  ; 

And  when  I  turn  the  other  way, 
'Tis  there  —  my  polar  star  ! 

I  glory  in  thy  promises 

When  sorrows  rend  my  breast, 

And  thus,  when  thinking  on  thy  word, 
My  sorrows  sink  to  rest. 

In  silent  watches  of  the  night 

I  sing  upon  my  bed, 
While  gently,  on  its  pillow'd  rest, 

Reclines  my  weary  head. 

Father !  I  '11  take  thy  blessed  word, 
And  clasp  it  to  my  breast ; 

Of  all  thy  glorious  gifts  to  man, 
The  noblest,  and  the  best ! 


February  18,  1841. 


SONG. 


I  see  thee  in  my  dreams, 

Thou  who  hast  gone  before  me  ! 
And  faithful  men-Try  seems 

My  loved  one  to  restore  me  ! 
Thou  'rt  clad  in  robes  of  light, 

Thy  face  with  joy  is  beaming, 
Thus,  dearest !   every  night, 

I  see  thee  when  I  'm  dreaming ! 

The  songs  we  loved  so  well, 

I  hear  my  dear  one  singing, 
And  sweet,  o'er  hill  and  dell, 

Melodious  notes  are  ringing  ! 
The  tears  bedim  my  sight 

Which  in  my  eyes  do  glisten, 
"While,  trembling  with  delight, 

I  hold  my  breath  to  listen. 

I  stretch  my  arms  to  thee  — 

But,  suddenly  awaking, 
My  love  no  more  I  see  — 

O!  then  my  heart  is  breaking! 


262  A    FUNERAL    HYMN. 

But  when  I  think  that  thou 
An  angel  art  in  glory, 

Again  to  sleep  I  go, 

And  dreams  repeat  the  story. 

Though  thou  hast  gone  above, 

And  left  this  world  forever, 
'Tis  true,  'tis  true,  my  love  ! 

1  can  forget  thee  never  ! 
Then  come  in  robes  of  light, 

Thy  face  with  rapture  beaming, 
And  let  me,  every  night, 

Behold  thee  when  I  'm  dreaming  ! 

February  16,  1841. 


A   FUNERAL   HYMN. 

Lay  low  the  sleeper  !  let  him  be 

Now  buried  out  of  sight  j 
This  dust,  O  Earth  !  we  give  to  thee, 

'Tis  thine  undoubted  right. 

It  came  from  thee  ;  but  not  the  soul  — 
The  breath  of  Deity  ! 


A     FUNERAL     BYXN. 

Insatiate  Grave  !  thy  dark  control 
Ends  with  mortality. 

Ashes  to  ashes  —  dust  to  dust  — 

Lay  low  the  silent  form  ! 
Though  loved  and  cherish'd  long,  we  must 

Consign  it  to  the  worm. 

Rest,  brother,  rest !  thy  work  is  done  ; 

Thy  spirit  is  not  here  ; 
The  battle  's  fought,  the  vict'ry  won ; 

"Where  is  the  victor  —  where  \ 

Behold  !  behold  !  the  pearly  gates 

Of  Heaven  are  opened  wide  ! 
What  glorious  rapture  now  awaits 

The  spirit  glorified ! 

\Yeep  on,  ye  mourners,  as  ye  go, 

But  weep  not  for  the  dead  ! 
Ye  lay  upon  its  pillow  low 

A  weary,  aching  head. 

Weep  for  yourselves,  and  weep  for  those 
Earth's  thorny  path  who  tread  ; 

But  not  for  those  who  thus  repose  — 
No  !  weep  not  for  the  dead  ! 

February  16,  1841. 


"SEARCH   THE   SCRIPTURES." 


"  For  in  them  ye  think  ye  have  eternal  life,  and  they  are  they  which 
testify  of  me." 

Wouldst  thou  an  introduction  have 

To  Him  who  mighty  is  to  save  1 

Then  search  the  scriptures  —  they  are  they 

Which  image  forth  the  Deity. 

O  !  dying  man  !  make  God  your  friend, 
Whose  friendship  lives  when  life  shall  end  ; 
Your  intimate  communion  here 
In  Heaven  shall  grow  more  sweet,  more  dear. 

The  friends  of  earth  —  how  oft  they  change, 
Forget  their  love,  grow  cold  and  strange  ! 
But  heavenly  friendship  —  O  !  't  will  be 
Increasing  through  eternity ! 

And  Jesus  is  the  source  of  all ; 
Around  his  feet  adoring  fall 


GOD     IS     FAITHFUL.  269 

The  saints  and  angels,  casting  down, 
Bacfa  happy  one,  his  shining  crown. 

No  "  clouds  or  darkness1'  veil  Him  there  ; 
The  Sun  of  Heaven,  He  shineth  clear  ; 
His  rays  a  settled  joy  impart, 
And  reach  to  every  perfect  heart. 

O  !  joy  of  joys  !  can  this  be  mine  1 
Shall  I  in  God's  own  likeness  shine  1 
O  !  yes  !  when  I  awake  in  Heaven, 
All  satisfied  —  my  sins  forgiven  ! 

February  20,  184-1. 


GOD   IS  FAITHFUL 


God  is  faithful !  God  is  love  ! 
Seated  on  his  throne  above, 
Still  he  looks  on  men  below, 
Makes  them  his,  and  keeps  them  so. 
When  in  dang'rous  paths  I  roam, 
Angel  voices  call  me  home  \ 
Penitent  and  weeping  sore, 
Then  I  wonder  and  adore  ! 
22 


266  LOVEST     THOU    MEl 

God  is  faithful!     God  is  just ! 
Therefore  let  me  ever  trust ; 
Each  event  will  work  my  good, 
Though  not  always  understood. 
If  he  should  my  comforts  slay, 
Darken,  roughen  all  my  way, 
I  deserve  it  all,  and  more  ■ — 
Therefore  still  would  I  adore. 

God  is  faithful !  God  is  wise  ! 
When  he  sees  me  idolize 
Dying  creatures  of  a  day, 
Soon  he  takes  them  all  away. 
Then  I  bow,  and  kiss  the  rod, 
Better  love  and  serve  my  God, 
Taste  of  joys  unknown  before, 
Wonder  still,  and  still  adore  ! 


"LOVEST    THOU  ME1" 

A  voice  salutes  my  ear  ! 
0 !  how  the  accents  move  me  ! 

I  hear  my  Savior  say, 
"  My  daughter !  dost  thou  love  me  1  n 


T  II  E     DTI  N  G     N  O  T  II  E  R  . 

What  answer  shall  I  give 
To  Him  who  died  to  save  me  \ 

Who  rescued  me  from  death, 
And  all  my  sins  forgave  me  I 

0  !  hear  me,  dearest  Lord  ! 
In  glory  throned  above  me, 

And  help  me  thus  to  say, 
"  Thou  knowest  that  I  love  thee  !  " 

February  21,  1841. 


THE   DYING   MOTHER. 

A  mother  is  dying  —  0  !  breathe  no  sound, 
Let  her  faint  low  tones  be  heard ! 

Now  stifle  your  sobs  as  ye  stand  around, 
And  list  to  each  parting  word ! 

Throw  open  the  casement,  and  let  the  breeze 
Playing  over  the  jessamine  vine, 

And  passing  the  blossoming  China  trees, 
Come  in  with  its  fragrance  fine. 


268  THE     DYING     MOTHER. 

Make  way  —  make  way  —  let  the  cool  wind  play 

O'er  the  pale  and  dying  brow ; 
For  she  loves  the  breath  of  the  closing  day, 

And  the  day  is  closing  now. 

O  !  see  !  how  her  mild  dark  eye  grows  bright, 

Like  the  eye  of  the  gentle  fawn  ! 
That  eye  will  sleep  in  death  this  night, 

Ere  another  morning's  dawn. 

Yes  !  tender  husband  !  wipe  the  few 
Death  pearls  from  her  forehead  fair  ; 

They  are  not  those  pearls  once  given  by  you, 
And  twined  in  her  chestnut  hair. 

'Tis  true  —  'tis  true — 'tis  her  bridal  day, 

But  the  bridal  is  not  of  earth  j 
She  will  sit  no  more  in  her  white  array, 

The  pride  of  the  cheerful  hearth ; 

As  once  she  sat,  when,  young  and  fair, 

She  gave  thee  her  virgin  hand, 
When  the  bells  rang  out  on  the  evening  air 

A  call  to  the  bridal  band.  ^ 

She  is  going  now  to  the  great  "  I  AM !  " 

She  will  soon  with  joy  sit  down 
To  the  marriage  supper  of  the  Lamb, 

Arrayed  in  her  sparkling  crown. 

She  is  now  the  bride  of  the  Crucified  — 
His  saints  he  calls  his  own  ; 


T  n  E     DYING     MOTHER.  '269 

She  is  one  of  those  for  whom  he  died, 
Who  will  sit  with  him  on  his  throne. 

O  !  see  !  the  beams  of  the  setting  sun, 

How  they  kiss  her  faded  cheek! 
Like  the  sun,  her  race  is  almost  run  — 

And  hark  !  I  hear  her  speak  ! 

Come  near  —  come  near  —  that  voice  to  hear, 

"lis  like  music  dying-  away  ; 
Bend  low,  bend  low,  each  list'ning  ear, 

For  the  words  those  pale  lips  say : 

u  I  am  dying  —  0 !  how  cold, 

0  !  how  deadly  faint  I  feel ! 
Death's  dark  tide  has  o'er  me  roll'd, 
Tremors  on  my  heartstrings  steal !  " 

"  Husband  !  let  me  see  thee,  dear  ! 
Bow  not  thus  thy  mournful  head  ! 
Speak  of  Heaven  to  calm  my  fear, 
Till  the  spark  of  life  has  fled. 

"  Bring  my  cljdren  !   bring  them  all ! 
Darlings  !  round  your  mother  stand  ! 
Place  the  babe  within  mine  arms, 
Let  me  hold  its  tiny  hand  ! 

"  Smiling  cherub  !  heir  of  Heaven  ! 

1  shall  see  thee,  darling  !  there  ; 
Raise  me  up,  and  let  me  i 
Cheek,  and  lip,  and  forehead  fair. 

22* 


270  THE     DYING    MOTHER. 

"  Husband  !  let  me  lean  my  head 
Sweetly  on  thy  noble  breast ! 
Let  me  breathe  away  my  life 
On  my  fav'rite  place  of  rest ! 

"  Cease  thine  aching,  heaving  heart ! 
Gently,  gently,  let  me  die  ! 
Let  me  give  my  last  farewell, 
Free  from  death's  deep  agony. 

"  Sons  and  daughters  !  all  farewell ! 
Let  the  last  sweet  kiss  be  given ; 
Hear  your  mother's  dying  charge  — 
Meet  me,  meet  me  —  all,  in  Heaven  !  " 

"Kiss  me,  husband!  yet  once  more  ! 
Once  again !  there,  that  will  do  j 
O  !  'tis  sweet  to  think  I  take 
But  a  short  farewell  of  you. 

"  I  am  going  —  all  is  dark  — 
Husband  !  'tis  not  hard  to  die  ; 
O  !  what  heavenly  light  I  see  ! 
Glory  !  glory  !  victory  !  " 

February  23,  1841. 


SMILING,    THOUGH    SAD 


0  !  yes  !  I  've  learn'd  the  art 

To  smile  when  the  bosom's  aching, 
In  others'  joy  to  take  a  part, 
When  all  my  heart  seems  breaking. 

1  've  learn'd  to  raise  my  voice, 
And  sing  the  songs  of  gladness, 

When  the  sun,  that  bade  my  heart  rejoice, 
Has  set  in  clouds  of  sadness. 

I  've  learn'd  to  hide  my  tears, 
And  hush  my  heavy  sighing, 
While  every  placid  feature  wears 
A  look,  the  truth  belying. 

If  I  could  speak  my  woe, 

O  !  who  would  understand  me  1 

The  wond'ring  look,  from  friend  and  foe, 

To  silence  would  command  me. 


272  SMILING,     THOUGH     SAD. 

Alone  —  alone  —  alone  — 

I  feel  in  the  crowded  city  ; 

Yet  strive  t'  assume  a  cheerful  tone  — 

I  love  not  human  pity ! 

O  !  how  I  love  to  hide 
Whene'er  I  feel  so  lonely, 
From  all  the  world  to  turn  aside, 
And  fly  to  Jesus  only. 

That  sympathizing  friend 

Will  never  chide  my  sadness, 

But,  while  I  weep,  he  '11  o'er  me  bend, 

And  whisper  words  of  gladness. 

February  27,  1841. 


THE    POET'S    WEALTH 


My  friends,  I  am  not  poor. 
What  though  my  purse  be  empty  \     Let  it  lie 
An  empty  bauble  still ;  my  heart  is  full 
Of  gushing  tenderness  to  all  I  love  ; 
And  I  love  every  thing,  save  sin.     Thank  God ! 
That  thing  I  do  not  love.     I  have  been  bathed, 
With  reverence  let  me  utter  it,  in  blood 
Which  hath  a  power  to  make  the  foulest  clean  ; 
And  though  I  need  to  wash  me  every  day 
In  that  exhanstless  fountain,  from  the  stains 
Which  will  on  earth  my  struggling  soul  defile, 
Still,  still,  I  love  not  sin  —  my  taste  is  changed. 
But  that  aside,  I  do  love  every  thing ; 
And  this,  sweet  friends  !   is  to  be  rich  indeed  ; 
I  am  content  —  'tis  all  the  wealth  I  need. 

I  love  this  rich  and  varied  world  of  ours, 
Adorn'd  with   sunbeams,  moonlight,  stars,  and 

flowers ; 
I  love  another  better ,  where  I  see 


274  the   poet's   wealth. 

With  eye  of  faith,  bright  things  in  store  for  me ; 
But  when  I  think  my  Father  made  this  earth 
So  beautiful,  to  be  th'  abode  of  man, 
0!  then  I  love  it  well  —  perhaps  too  well. 

How  oft  with  tremulous  delight  I  've  gazed 

Upon  th'  unquiet  ocean  —  while  in  sport 

He  tossed  his  billows  in  a  thousand  forms, 

And  crown'd  them  all  with  snowy  wreaths  of  foam  ! 

Long  have  I  stood  upon  the  shelving  beach, 

With  feelings  elevated  by  the  scene. 

Who  does  not  love  the  ocean  1     Who  can  stand 

Spectator  of  that  most  sublime  expanse  — 

The  fathomless,  the  ever  changing  sea, 

And  feel  not  reverence,  gratitude,  and  love, 

To  Him  who  keeps  the  waters  in  their  bounds, 

Who  holds  them  in  the  hollow  of  his  hand  % 

If  there  be  such  a  man,  that  man  is  poor, 

Though  sums  untold  within  his  coffers  lie. 

I  love  the  sun  —  the  bright  impartial  sun, 

Which  shineth  on  the  evil  and  the  good ! 

I  love  the  moon  —  the  pale  and  pensive  moon, 

When,  walking  thoughtful  in  the  silent  night, 

She  throws  her  mellow  rays  on  every  scene, 

Peopling  with  fairy  forms  the  forest  shades, 

As  her  mild  eye  looks  through  the  moving  trees. 

I  love  the  stars  —  "  the  poetry  of  Heaven  !  " 
Those  meeting  places  for  fond  lovers'  eyes, 
Who  tenderly,  at  some  appointed  hour, 
With  earnest  looks  gaze  on  their  fav'rite  star ! 
I  love  the  clouds  —  th'  embroidery  of  the  sky ! 


THE     POETS     WEALTH. 

Work'd  out  in  bold  relief,  in  figures  fine, 
Upon  a  ground  of  never  fading  blue  ! 
I  even  love  the  frowning  thunder  cloud, 
Clothing  the  ^kies  in  mourning,  ere  the  rain 
May  weep  its  torrents  o'er  the  thirsty  land. 

I  love  the  flowers  —  fair  ornaments  of  earth  ! 

The  many  colored  gems  which  deck  her  breast  — 

The  scented  sprigs  upon  her  robe  of  green  ! 

I  love  the  trees  —  which  throw  their  leafy  shade, 

To  screen  us  from  the  scorching  noontide  ray, 

Or  spread  their  arms,  well  fill'd  with  golden  fruit, 

Inviting  us  to  taste  the  rich  repast. 

I  love  the  birds  —  those  cheerful  choristers, 

Which  sing  to  us  in  ever  tuneful  strains, 

Unpaid,  and  often  unregarded  too. 

I  love  the  noble  beasts  —  untamed  which  roam, 

Or  those  which  patient  bear  man's  heavy  yoke, 

Or  those  which  minister  to  our  delight, 

By  giving  food,  or  bearing  friend  to  friend. 

I  love  mankind  —  though  I  would  keep  afar 
From  those  whose  minds  are  meanly  chain'd  to 

earth, 
Unless  they'd  listen  to  my  pleading  voice, 
Telling  of  things  all  fair  and  beautiful. 
I  love  with  all  my  heart,  a  little  child, 
Pure,  fresh,  and  beauteous  in  its  early  bloom  — 
A  blossom  soon  to  shed  its  fragrance  far, 
Or  scatter  baleful  poison  all  around. 
I  love  the  aged  man,  whose  hoary  hair 
Lie>  thinly  scattcr'd  o'er  his  temples  bare; 
I  love  to  see  him  cheerfully  descend 


276 


The  hill  of  life.     The  winter  of  his  days 
A  prelude  is  to  one  eternal  spring. 

And  I  love  sorrow  too ;  it  teaches  me 

The  lessons  I  shall  ne'er  forget.     It  breaks 

My  heart,  that  love  divine  may  enter  in, 

And,  while  it  heals  the  breach,  may  there  abide. 

And  last,  not  least,  I  love  sweet  poetry, 

The  only  never  failing  alchemy 

Which  turneth  all  it  touches  into  gold. 

So  much  for  earth  ;  now  for  exalted  love  ! 

1  love,  O !  how  I  love,  my  future  home  ! 

Here  language  fails  me.     Eye  hath  never  seen, 

Ear  has  not  heard,  nor  heart  of  man  conceiv'd 

The  things  that  are  reserved  for  us  in  Heaven ! 

Ye  see  the  Christian  poet  is  not  poor ; 

Though  bread  and  water  all  my  portion  be, 

Still  am  I  rich  indeed  —  I  ask  no  more. 

For  know  ye  not  that  all  these  things  are  mine  1 

They  're  mine  and  yours,  for  our  enjoyment  given. 

Remember  it  was  said,  "  All  things  are  yours  — 

And  ye  are  Christ's,  and  Christ  is  God's." 

January  14,  1841. 


"THY    WILL    BE    DONE 


'Tis  rebellion  gives  us  pain, 
Anguish  comes  when  we  complain 

In  the  stormy  day  j 
When  the  will  is  all  subdued, 
When  no  murm'ring  thoughts  intrude, 

Sorrow  flies  away. 

Tranquil  as  the  sleeping  sea, 
Ever  may  our  bosoms  be, 

Though  our  all  is  gone  ; 
Sweetly  passive  when  we  lie, 
Fearing  not  the  frowning  sky, 

Brighter  prospects  dawn. 

O  !  ye  pilgrims,  do  ye  know 
When  the  heavenly  breezes  blow 

O'er  this  wretched  earth  1 
'Tis  when  sorrow  rends  the  heart ; 
Then  the  Savior  doth  impart 

Joys  of  heavenly  birth. 
23 


278 


When,  in  God's  mysterious  way, 
Sorrow's  night  shuts  out  the  day, 

Patient  let  me  be ; 
Death,  thou  great  destroyer,  come ! 
Take  my  friends  and  bear  them  home, 

Then  return  for  me  ! 

January  18,  1841. 


WHOM    THE    LORD    LOVETH,    HE 
CHASTENETH. 


My  Father  chastens  whom  he  loves  ; 

0  !  then,  he  loves  me  tenderly ; 
Oft  in  the  fire  my  heart  he  proves, 
As  oft  I  know  the  reason  why. 

For  I  am  full  of  earthly  love  ', 

1  idolize  the  gifts  of  Heaven ; 
And  then  my  Father,  from  above, 
Recalls  the  dear  ones  he  has  given. 

Then  earth's  attractions  die  to  me, 
And  I  am  forced  to  look  above  j 


HE    CHASTENETH.  279 

And  He  who  fills  eternity, 

Attracts  my  gaze,  and  fires  my  love. 

So,  trials  let  me  ever  hail, 
Which  bring  another  world  so  near  ; 
I  'm  introduced  within  the  veil, 
And  angel  songs  I  seem  to  hear. 

Afflicted  heart,  rejoice,  rejoice  ! 
The  door  of  Heaven  is  oped  for  thee  ; 
And  hark !   O  !  hark  !  I  hear  a  voice 
Which,  "  Come  up  hither,"  says  to  me. 

0  !  Father  !  dost  thou  love  me  so  1 
These  dreadful  strokes  fall  not  on  me ; 

1  bless  thy  name,  each  heavy  blow 
But  strikes  my  chain,  to  set  me  free  ! 

McPhersonville,  April  15,  1841. 


IF    THERE   BE    THEREFORE   ANY   CON 
SOLATION    IN    CHRIST." 


Consolation  in  Christ  1     0  !  Savior  divine, 
How  well  canst  thou  comfort  this  heart  of  mine ! 
I  've  tried  thee,  and  proved  thee,  and  well  I  know 
That  rivers  of  comfort  from  thee  do  flow. 

Not  like  the  dark  waters  whose  waves  are  strong, 
Are  those  rivers  that  gently  glide  along  j 
My  frail  little  bark  safely  guided  will  be, 
Till  it  reaches  eternity's  boundless  sea. 

No  huge  rolling  billows  can  me  overwhelm, 
The  God  of  the  ocean  is  at  the  helm  ; 
Though  the  waves  may  rise,  and  around  me  chafe, 
When  Jesus  is  with  me,  all  is  safe  ! 

O,  Savior  !  there  is  consolation  in  thee, 
And  when  I  am  troubled,  'tis  there  I  flee  ; 
I  hide  in  thy  bosom,  and  there  lean  my  head, 
When  the  bosoms  I  loved  are  cold  and  dead. 


ALL     JOY.  281 

And  why  do  I  ever  forsake  thy  breast. 

And  seek  upon  earth  for  a  place  of  rest  1 

Why  cannot  1  learn  there  is  safety  alone, 

Where  for  safety  and  comfort  so  often  I  Ye  ilown  1 

How  foolish,  forgetful,  and  faithless  am  I, 
To  fasten  my  love  upon  things  that  must  die  ! 
And  when  they  are  taken,  how  well  'tis  for  me, 
That  there  is  consolation,  dear  Savior,  in  thee  ! 

April  21,  1841. 


ALL    JOY 


u  My  brethren,  count  it  all  joy  when  you  fall  into  divers  tempta- 
tion* :  knowing  this,  that  the  trial  of  your  faith  worketh  patience." 

James  i.  2,  3. 

O  !   Father  divine  !  may  I  count  it  all  joy 
To  resign  thee  my  husband  and  beautiful  boy  ; 
Though  now  I  am  weeping  and  breaking  my  heart, 
Thou  canst  dry  every  tear  and  cure  every  smart. 

Thou  art  teaching  me  patience  by  trying  my  faith, 
This   "fight  of  affliction"   springs  not  from  thy 
wrath  j 


282  ALL     JOY 


It  grieved  thee,  my  Father,  to  punish  me  so, 
But  'twas  tenderest  mercy  that  guided  each  blow. 

May  I  bear,  holy  Father  !  this  sorrow  and  pain, 
And  never,  O !  never,  despond  or  complain  j 
Though  all  of  my  loved  ones  should  sicken  and  die, 
I  will  not,  I  dare  not,  thy  goodness  deny. 


I  have  seen  a  sweet  child,  with  a  frown  on  his  brow, 
Ere  his  will  had  been  taught  to  his  father's  to  bow ; 
I  have  seen  him  subdued,  and  the  frown  leave  his 

face, 
And  the  smile  of  affection  beam  bright  in  its  place  ; 

And  he  loved  his  kind  father,  who  guided  the  rod ; 
Then  sure  I  must  love  thee,  my  Father !  my  God ! 
Thou  hast  taken  my  treasures,  and  stricken  me  sore, 
Yet  more  do  I  love  thee  than  ever  before. 

Heart  broken  and  sorrowing,  Father,  to  thee, 
On  the  wings  of  affection  this  moment  I  '11  flee ; 
If  thou  wilt  be  mine,  I  will  "count  it  all  joy" 
To  resign  thee  my  husband  and  beautiful  boy ! 

May  2,  1841. 


THE   MOURNER'S   RESOLVE. 


Hence,  all  ye  sombre  signs  of  grief! 

Ye  must  not  dwell  with  me  ; 
Though  to  indulge  would  give  relief, 

I  must  not  selfish  be. 

I  charge  thee,  O !  thou  quiv'ring  lip ! 

To  settle  to  a  smile  ; 
And  let  thy  cheerful  fellowship 

My  lonely  heart  beguile. 

I  '11  strive  with  all  my  heart,  to  bless 

Each  sufferer  I  see  ; 
The  widow  and  the  fatherless 
ball  learn  to  pray  for  me. 

I  '11  ne'er  forget  how  loved  ones  watch 

For  every  smile  or  tear  ; 
\<>r  how  their  eager  faces  catch 

The  look  mv  features  wear. 


284         WHEREFORE     GLORIFY     YE     THE     LORD 

They  shall  not  hear  my  grief  express'd, 

They  shall  not  see  me  weep ; 
But  every  sorrow  in  my  breast 

Shall  there  lie,  buried  deep. 

This  is  my  task,  and  I  will  still 

Bear  on  my  broken  heart ; 
If  God  will  give  me  strength  awhile, 

I  '11  nobly  do  my  part. 

May  27,  1841. 


WHEREFORE   GLORIFY   YE    THE   LORD 

IN   THE   FIRES.  — Is.  xxiv.  15. 

Help  me,  Lord,  to  glorify  thee, 

In  the  fires  to  sing  thy  praise, 
With  my  heart  to  justify  thee 

All  these  dark  and  doleful  days. 
Should  I  bask  in  beams  of  glory 

All  the  days  I  sojourn  here, 
Would  I  then  believe  the  story, 

That  this  world  is  dark  and  drear  1 


IN     THE     FIRES.  285 

Would  I  ever  turn  to  Heaven, 

With  an  ardent  sweet  desire, 
If  to  me  *t  were  never  given 

Thus  to  pass  through  sorrow's  fire  1 
Not  from  paths  of  fragrant  roses 

Will  the  rebel  call  on  God, 
Not  till  Jesus  interposes, 

Planting  thorns  along  my  road. 

Burning  fires  can  ne'er  alarm  me, 

When  my  Savior's  voice  I  hear, 
Barbed  arrows  cannot  harm  me, 

With  the  balm  of  Gilead  near. 
Sorrow's  flames  will  purify  me, 

Barbed  arrows  harmless  fall, 
If  I  praise  and  glorify  thee 

In  the  fires,  my  Life  !  my  All ! 

June  8,  1841. 


LINES 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  HENRY  DICKSON, 
Infant  son  of  Thomas  A.  Elliott,  M.  D.,  of  Orangeburg,  S.  C. 


He  died  ere  sorrow's  blighting  breath 

Had.  o'er  him  pass'd  ; 
Cold  sinking  in  the  arms  of  Death, 

He  breathed  his  last. 
But  father,  mother,  do  not  weep  ; 
Your  darling  babe  is  but  asleep 

In  Jesus'  arms ; 
He  tasted  of  the  cup  of  pain, 
Then  turned  him  to  his  home  again  — 

To  heavenly  charms. 

Remember  how,  in  gentle  tones, 

The  Savior  said, 
While  o'er  th'  unconscious  little  ones 

His  hands  he  spread, 
"  Forbid  them  not  to  come  to  me  ;  " 
O  !  father,  mother,  will  not  ye 

Remember  this  1 


LINES.  287 

Why  docs  not  joy  each  bosom  seize, 
When  Jesus  says,  "  Of  such  as  these 
My   kingdom  is  I  " 

Then,  while  you  think  upon  your  boy, 

Your  sainted  one, 
O!  sweetly  say,  with  smiles  of  joy, 

"  God's  will  be  done  !  " 
Go,  darling,  to  thy  blissful  home, 
Where  pain  and  death  can  never  come, 

Nor  pale  faced  woe  j 
Go,  nestle  in  the  Savior's  breast  ; 
Soon  we  shall  share  thy  blissful  rest ; 

Go,  Henry,  go ! 

Orangeburg,  August    14,  184-1. 


THE   DYING   HADGI. 


With  downcast  brow  and  ling'ring  feet, 
Who  leaves  that  richly  cushion'd  seat  % 
And  why  that  deep  convulsive  sigh  1 
Thou  veiled  Beauty,  tell  me  why  1 
'Twas  Selim  left  that  cushion'd  seat, 
With  downcast  brow  and  ling'ring  feet. 


II. 

And  she  who  loves  him  more  than  life, 
That  dark  eyed  maid  —  his  promised  wife, 
Whose  gath'ring  tears  bedim  each  eye, 
'Twas  she  who  sigh'd  convulsively  j 
For  Selim  starts  that  very  day 
His  vows  at  Mecca's  shrine  to  pay. 


III. 

It  must  be  so  —  for  all  must  part  $ 
There  lives  no  man,  whose  youthful  heart 


THE     DYING     HADGI. 

Has  never  ached  when  he  has  beard, 

Farewell — farewell — that  saddening  word  ! 
Unless  the  heart  is  cased  in  steel, 
This  is  a  pang  that  all  must  feel. 


IV. 

How  oft  beneath  the  moon's  pale  ray, 
Have  parting  tears  been  wiped  away, 
While  others  soon  their  place  supply, 
As  though  the  fount  could  ne'er  be  dry  ! 
Ah  !  Stoics  !  vain  are  all  your  sneers  ; 
They  speak  of  pain,  those  parting  tears. 


Cheer  up,  young  Selim  !  time  will  fly, 
Though  lovers  oft  this  ruth  deny, 
And  say  he  lags  upon  the  road  3 
But  urge  him  with  thy  sharpest  goad, 
Keep  a  light  heart,  an  active  mind, 
And  leave  thy  vain  regrets  behind. 


VI. 

And  thou,  pale  Beauty  !  weeping  sore, 
Raise  up  thy  head,  and  weep  no  more, 
And  bless  thy  fate  that  thou  hast  known 
Thy  future  husband  ;  thou  alone, 
Of  all  thy  young  companions,  art 
Thus  blest  in  giving  up  thy  heart.* 

•  In  Turkish  families  the  daughter*  aro  betrothed  when  quite  young, 
and  very  often  do  not  see  their  destined  husbands. 


290  THE     DYING     HADGI. 


VII. 

One  last  fcmd  look  the  youth  bestows, 
And  Selim  with  his  father  goes, 
To  take  his  place  amid  the  band 
Who  journey  to  a  distant  land  j 
The  high,  the  low,  the  dark,  the  fair, 
The  master  and  the  slave  are  there. 


VIII. 

And  now  each  stately  Mussulman 
Has  joined  the  starting  caravan, 
And  rich  and  poor  alike  press  on 
To  Mecca's  shrine  ;  that  journey  done, 
Life's  greatest  object  is  attained, 
And  Paradise  is  surely  gained. 


IX. 

Thus  every  man  beneath  the  sun 
To  some  vain  pilgrimage  doth  run ; 
The  heights  of  pleasure  and  of  fame 
Are  lighted  by  a  dazzling  flame  ; 
And  every  man,  with  fond  design, 
Bends  low  at  some  forbidden  shrine. 


The  caravan  is  on  its  way ; 
And,  decked  with  varied  colors  gay, 
The  sacred  camel  marches  on, 
Proud  of  his  grand  caparison  j 


tii  B    D  v  1  n  G    II  a  i)  <;  I  .  291 

It  hath  been  so  since  lime  began, 

Brutes  imitate  their  master,  man. 


XI. 

0~!  'tis  a  splendid  sight  to  see 
The  gorgeous  banners  waving  free! 
From  distant  lands  the  pilgrims  come, 
With  zeal  that  shames  all  Christendom  ; 
They  hope  t1  avert  a  future  doom, 
By  bending  at  their  prophet's  tomb. 


xir. 

The  Arab  guide  his  mournful  song 
Chants  slowly,  as  he  moves  along, 
And,  mounting  to  the  cloudless  sky, 
The  hookah's  *  smoke  ascends  on  high ; 
And  every  step  springs  light  and  free  — 
O  !  'tis  a  goodly  company! 


XIII. 

But  little  weens  the  hadgi  now, 

How  suffering  may  blanch  his  brow  ; 

The  horrors  of  the  fell  Simoom  f 

Not  yet  have  filled  his  heart  with  gloom; 

But  still  the  hour  comes  on,  when  all 

Beneath  its  fiery  breath  may  fall. 

••  Hookah,"'  the  Turkish  pipe. 

eliere  I  have  good  authority  for  the  orthography  of 
this  word,  although  it  is  oftener  spelled  c<  Simoon." 


292  THE     DYING     HADGI. 

XIV. 

Some  fall,  alas !  no  more  to  rise, 
For  death  cuts  short  their  agonies  ; 
And  others  only  live  to  feel 
The  pangs  of  thirst  upon  them  steal, 
To  long  for  what  they  cannot  taste, 
And  slowly  die  upon  the  waste. 


XV. 

O  !  'tis  a  fearful  death  to  die, 

That  slow  consuming  agony ! 

To  feel  the  heart's  pulsation  stop, 

The  blood  creep  slowly,  drop  by  drop ! 

To  struggle  with  a  burning  fire, 

And,  parch'd  with  raging  thirst,  expire  ! 


XVI. 

Long  on  the  desert  have  they  been, 
And  not  one  spot  of  cheerful  green 
Their  languid  eyes  have  gazed  upon, 
And  ling'ring  hope  is  almost  gone. 
Their  scanty  store  of  water  too 
Is  gone  ;  what  may  the  pilgrims  do  1 


XVII. 

O  !  for  some  intervening  cloud, 
Arabia's  burning  sun  to  shroud  ! 


THE     DYING     H  A  D  G  I  . 

foi  sume  sheltering  rock,  to  cast 
shadow  on  the  dreary  WB8t< 
0  !  for  boom  fountain  spark'ung  clear, 
OrHagar's  friendly  angel  near! 


win. 

The  hills  of  sand  on  every  side. 
Like  waves  of  ocean,  petrified 
"While  high  their  restless  forms  did  run, 
S     id  whitening  in  the  bleaching  sun. 
All  parch' d  and  bare  the  ground  below, 
The  heaven  above  one  scorching  glow  ! 


XIX. 

"  0  !  give  me  water,  e'er  I  die  "  — 
This  was  the  fainting  pilgrim's  cry  : 
But  who  could  help  \  that  dreadful  hour 
Was  one  when  friendship  had  no  power 
To  mitigate  the  sufferer's  pain  ; 
—  The  dying  hadgi  called  in  vain ! 


Stretch'd  on  the  burning  sands  he  lay, 
And  in  his  eye  the  sparkling  ray  — 
The  index  of  his  soul,  irrew  dim  ; 
Now  what  was  all  his  wealth  to  him  \ 
He  would  have  given  all  to  buy 
One  drop  of  water  —  none  was  nigh. 


294  THE     DYING     H  A  D  G  I  . 

XXI. 

"  O  !  father  !  father  !  canst  thou  bear 
To  die,  thy  journey's  end  so  near  1 
This  dreadful  desert  almost  pass'd, 
And  wilt  thou,  father  !   sink  at  last  1  " 
Thus  spoke  the  hadgi's  noble  son, 
His  darling  boy  —  his  only  one ! 

XXII. 

'Twas  Selim  spake  —  his  father  now 
Gazed  on  his  face  with  troubled  brow, 
And  'twas  for  him  escaped  the  sigh, 
And  sprang  the  tear-drop  from  his  eye  j 
'Twas  hard  to  part  from  Selim  there, 
Where  all  was  woe,  and  blank  despair. 

XXIII. 

'Tis  sad  to  see  proud  manhood  lie 

As  weak  as  helpless  infancy ! 

Not  one  in  all  that  caravan 

With  stronger  heart  their  march  began, 

Than  he,  whose  long  drawn,  gasping  breath 

Was  wavering  'twixt  life  and  death. 

XXIV. 

So  is  it  often  here  below, 

The  strongest  are  the  first  to  bow 


THE    DYING    HADG1. 

Beneath  the  ruthless  storms  o\'  life  ; 

Tlic  proud  man  sinks  —  the  gentle  wife 
Uprises 'mid  the  stormy  blast, 
And  smiles  until  its  rage  be  past. 


x\v. 

The  father  turned  his  failing  eye 
Upon  his  boy  —  he  rais'd  on  high 
His  trembling  hand,  and  faintly  said, 
"  Allah  protect  him  when  I  'm  dead ! 
Then  laid  his  hand  upon  his  breast, 
And  siprh'd,  "I  soon  shall  be  at  rest.': 


xxvi. 


"  O !  die  not  thus,  my  father  !  no  ! 
I  would  not  have  thee  perish  so  !  " 
Thus  spake  the  boy,  then  made  a  sign 
To  those  around;  "  You  know 'tis  mine,1 
He  said,  "  to  promise  wealth,  'tis  yours 
To  gain  it  —  now  the  richest  stores 


xxvir. 

"  I  '11  give  to  him  who  brings  me  first, 
A  draught  to  quench  this  dying  thirst ; 
My  noble  father  must  not  die  ; 
Who  brings  me  water,  thus  will  buy 
The  princely  wealth  1  have  to  <j\vo — 
Haste  then,  and  bid  my  father  li . 


296  THE     DYING     HADGI. 

XXVIII. 

But  all  are  silent  —  there  they  stand 
Like  statues,  all  that  t urban' d  band  j 
For  who  could  do  his  bidding,  who  1 
When  they  were  nearly  dying  too  1 
They  now  prepare  to  travel  on, 
Ere  life's  last  energy  is  gone. 


XXIX. 

"  And  must  I  leave  my  father  here  1  " 
Cried  out  the  boy,  in  wild  despair ; 
"  It  must  not  be  ;  he  is  not  dead, 
And  I  will  hope  till  life  has  fled  j 
I  '11  bear  him  in  my  bosom,  where 
Sweet  water  gushes,  bright  and  clear." 


XXX. 

He  said,  and  rais'd  his  father's  form  ; 
He  found  his  heart  still  beating  warm  ; 
The  hope  of  saving  him  at  length 
Endued  him  with  a  giant's  strength ; 
And  while  the  patient  camel  knelt, 
Tumultuous  joy  young  Selim  felt. 


XXXI. 

Now  onward  moves  the  caravan  ; 
The  movement  wakes  the  dying  man  ; 


THE    DYING     SADGI. 

Tlic  houdah  *   is  ;i  place  of  rest, 

For  he  reclines  on  Selim's  bree 

A  faint  breeze  comes,  and  seems  to  give 
New  life,  ami  bid  the  dying  live. 


xxxir. 

He  softly  murmurs  in  his  dreai 

Of  cooling  shades,  and  flowing  streams; 

Perhaps  he  sees,  that  dying  man, 

The  fountain  in  his  own  divan  ; 

And  while  he  hears  its  gurgling  sound, 

He  sees  his  loved  ones  all  around. 


XXXIII. 

Dream  on  —  dream  on  —  for  never  more 
Thou'lt  pass  the  threshold  of  thy  door. 
Smile  not,  young  Selim  !   death  is  near, 
Though  Hope  is  whisp'ring  in  thine  ear  ! 
No  —  Selim  —  no  —  'tis  but  the  strife 
When  mortals  bid  adieu  to  life. 


XXXIV. 

The  panting  beast,  with  ling'ring  tread, 
Bears  on  the  dying  and  the  dead  ; 
For  Selim's  father  breaths  no  more, 
lim  bows  to  sorrow's  power. 
How  oft,  when  hope  is  prostrate  laid, 
Oblivion  lends  her  friendly  aid  ! 

•i  divan,  placed  on  the  back  of  the 
;.  and  either  rudely  or  luxuriously  famished. 


298  THE     DYING    HADGI. 

XXXV. 

And  now  the  wild  Arabian 

Watches  the  weakened  caravan  ; 

He  knows  when  death  has  done  its  work 

On  many  a  proud  and  wealthy  Turk ; 

And  there  are  signs  he  knows  full  well, 

Which  tales  of  suffering  weakness  tell  $• 

XXXVI. 

When  deep  despair  has  seized  on  all ; 
And  every  jaded  animal 
But  creeps  his  weary  way  along, 
And  jest,  and  laugh,  and  merry  song 
Are  hush'd  —  and  all  is  silent  there, 
Save  the  deep  sigh,  or  mutter'd  prayer. 

XXXVII. 

A  palm  tree  in  the  desert  —  ho  ! 
Now  see  how  cheerily  they  go  ! 
For  Hope  has  lit  her  sparkling  light, 
And  every  sadden'd  eye  grows  bright. 
Farewell  to  every  boding  fear  ! 
The  palm  tree  marks  a  streamlet  near  ! 

XXXVIII. 

The  baffled  robber  wheels  around, 

And  fast  his  steed  flies  o'er  the  ground  ; 


THE     P  V  1  N  G      H  A  D6I.  299 

Foi  men  who  but  an  hour  before 

Were  faint  and  weak,  are  weak  no  more  ! 
Who  knows  what  mortals  can  endure, 
When  hope  leads  on,  and  help  is  sure  1 


XXXIX. 

'Tis  reach'd  at  length  —  the  blessed  spot ! 
But  son  and  lather  heed  it  not. 
O'er  one  oblivion's  wing  is  spread, 
And  one  is  numbered  with  the  dead  : 
And  O  !  't  would  save  most  bitter  pain, 
Could  Selim  never  wake  again  ! 


XL. 

Now,  prostrate  bending  to  the  wave, 
How  drink  the  master  and  the  slave  ! 
And  'tis  the  most  delicious  draught 
That  ever  weary  traveler  quaff' d  ! 
With  blessings  on  the  purling  rill, 
Each  toil-worn  pilgrim  drinks  his  fill. 


XLI. 

But,  fainting  nature  satisfied, 
They  now  repair  to  Selim's  side  j 
And  there,  within  the  houdah,  see 
A  picture  of  mortality  ! 
And,  struck  with  sorrow,  every  one 
Bewails  the  father  and  the  son. 


300  THE     DYING     HADGI. 

XLII. 

But  soon  they  know  that  Selim  lives, 
And  each  some  prompt  attention  gives  ; 
They  bear  him  to  a  shaded  place, 
And  bathe  his  pallid,  death-like  face  ; 
And  now  he  heaves  a  deep  drawn  sigh, 
And  gazes  round  with  languid  eye. 

XLIII. 

"  Young  Selim  !  there  is  water  near  ! 
O,  list  thee  now,  and  thou  wilt  hear 
The  murm'ring  of  a  blessed  stream  ; 
Cheer  up  !  it  is  no  fev'rish  dream  ! 
See  nature's  best  restorative  ! 
Poor  fainting  Selim  !  drink  and  live  !  " 

XLIV. 

But  Selim  hears  not.     On  his  brow 
The  damps  of  death  are  gath'ring  now ; 
And,  though  no  sound  is  plainly  heard, 
His  lips  pronounce  some  cherish'd  word  ) 
For  while  he  goes  through  death's  lone  shade, 
His  thoughts  are  with  his  dark  eyed  maid. 

XLV. 

And  she,  within  her  splendid  home, 
Will  wonder  why  he  does  not  come  ; 


THE     DTI  N  G     B  A  DM.  301 

And,  wandering  through  the  marble  halls, 
Where  many  a  tear  in  secret  falls, 
Will  vainly  hope  from  day  to  clay, 
While  creep  the  tardy  hours  away. 


XLVI. 

And  through  the  shady  citron  grove, 
At   morn  and  eve  the  maid  will  rove, 
And,  gazing  on   the  verdant  ground, 
Will  start  at  every  rust'ling  sound, 
And,  pale  with  mingled  hope  and  fear, 
Will  look  to  see  her  love  appear. 


XLVII. 

O  !  lady  !  Selim  will  not  come  — 
Thou 'It  never  bid  him  "  welcome  home  " 
With  sick'ning  pangs  thou  'It  weep  apart, 
Till  hope  forsakes  thy  fresh  young  heart ; 
And  then,  in  silent  agony, 
That  heart  will  break,  and  breaking,  die  ! 
25 


REAL-  COMFORT 


There  !  I  have  lock'd  the  door 

'Gainst  every  senseless  bore  ! 
O  !   'tis  a  blessing  to  retire, 
And,  drawing  near  my  cheerful  fire, 

To  feel  I  am  alone  — 

Responsible  to  none  — 

My  cares  behind  me  thrown  — 

Hence  !  vanish  every  one  ! 
Now  for  a  cozy  time  with  my  sweet  Muse ! 
Come,  lady,  wake  !  this  is  no  time  to  snooze ; 
When  we  're  alone  we  've  not  an  hour  to  lose, 
We  cannot  always  thus  ourselves  amuse. 

I  've  laid  my  trappings  by  ; 

For  now  no  envious  eye 
Looks  on,  my  dress  to  criticise, 
With  strictures  aye  more  nice  than  wise. 

Clad  in  a  flowing  gown, 

My  hair  I  've  taken  down, 

And,  o'er  my  shoulders  thrown, 

It  seeks  my  Ioosen'd  zone  ; 


REAL     COMFORT.  303 

Thus,  free  from  all  undue  restraint,  we  sit, 
My  darling  .Muse  and  I,  to  try  our  wit, 
While,  author-like,  our  learned  brows  we  knit, 
And  coax  our  brains  bright  sparkles  to  emit. 

'Tis  true,  the  silent  night 

Has  darken'd  round  us  quite ; 
But  'tis  the  time  we  love  the  best, 
When  earthly  things  are  all  at  rest, 

And  sweet  the  hours  glide 

Down  time's  fast  flowing  tide, 

Nor  daylight's  pomp,  nor  pride, 

Invades  our  fireside ; 
And  should,  perchance,  my  fickle  Muse  be  shy, 
And  choose  to  tarry  in  her  native  sky, 
Why,  even  then,  I  '11  not  to  others  fly; 
I  think  myself  the  best  of  company. 


But  come,  consenting  Muse ! 
We  '11  now  a  subject  choose 
From  things  below,  or  things  above 
I  have  it  then,  it  shall  be  —  Love  ! 
Which  has  its  home,  you  know 
In  earth  and  heaven  too  j 
So,  with  no  more  ado, 
I  '11  sing  of  love  to  you:  — 


SONG. 


Love  is  a  tyrant,  with  a  silken  chain  — 

What !  pouting,  Miss  1  you  toss  your  head  in 


1     l  HL_~r    -_1   —    _  _     - 


-    - 


lav iv\ 

ttt'n    .mi*  4km —    * 


- 


. 


306  SONG. 

So,  't  will  please  me  well  to  live 
Where  the  ocean  waves  do  play, 
And  make  delightful  harmony, 
Both  night  and  day  ! 

February  26,  1841. 


SONG. 


O  !  happy  days  of  childhood ! 

Ye  have  left  me  all  too  soon, 
When  I  wandered  in  the  wildwood, 

And  sang  sweet  "  Bonnie  Doon." 

When  merry  voices  ringing, 
In  the  tones  of  childish  glee, 

Told  that  no  sad  cares  were  clinging 
To  my  young  friends  or  me. 

Oft  in  the  woodland  hiding, 
How  we  ran  from  tree  to  tree, 

Or  on  young  pine  saplings  riding, 
We  laughed  in  ecstasy ! 


307 


Or  in  the  waters  wading, 

On  the  smooth  and  lea-girt  shore, 
While  the  western  sun  was  fading, 

We  frolick'd  more  and  more. 

O  !  happy  days  of  childhood  ! 

Ye  will  never  more  return  ; 
For  the  waters  and  the  wildwood, 

In  vain,  in  vain  I  yearn. 

Charleston,  February  26,  1841. 


TO    MRS.    WILLIAM    H 


Written  after  receiving  from  her  a  beautiful  bunch  of  flowers. 

I  do  thank  thee,  lovely  lady, 

For  these  bright  and  fragrant  flowers ; 
O  !   how  sweetly  such  mementos 

Lend  their  charms  to  lonely  hours  ! 

Here  are  roses,  freshly  blooming, 

Free  from  blight,  and  free  from  stain  ; 

Time  will  mar  their  brilliant  beauty, 
But  their  fragrance  will  remain. 

So,  when  time  shall  part  us,  lady, 
Though  I  view  thy  charms  no  more, 

Think  not  mem'ry  will  forsake  me, 
Nor  thy  smiles  to  me  restore. 

When  my  roses  all  have  faded, 

When  life's  flowers  are  pale  and  dead, 

When  my  spring  has  changed  to  winter, 
When  its  frosts  are  on  my  head  ; 


TO    mks.    W  ILL!  A  M    H  .  309 

Like  an  evergreen  shall  ilourish 
All  my  memory  of  tnee, 

Or  like  roses,  freshly  blooming  ; 
Shall  these  hours  return  to  inc. 

Love  mc,  lady,  gentle  lady, 

All  unworthy  though  I  be  ; 
*T  will  be  sweet  to  think  hereafter 

I  was  once  beloved  by  thee. 

McPhersonville,  April  22,  1S41. 


THE    DREAM    OF    THE    SICK. 


But  for  me,  0  thou  picture-land  of  sleep  ! 
Thou  art  all  one  world  of  affections  deep. 

Mrs.  Hemans. 

In  the  dim  twilight  of  my  darkened  room, 
When  worn  and  wasted  by  long  suffering, 
I  lay,  and  thought  upon  the  past.     No  bloom 
To  my  wan  face  could  even  mem'ry  bring  ; 
For  fever's  fiery  thirst  had  drunk  my  blood, 
And  stolen  from  my  cheek  the  vital  flood. 

A  breath  of  air  —  a  zephyr  from  the  west, 
Came  stealing  through  the  latticed  window  frame  J 
To  me,  as  comes  a  dear  expected  guest, 
One  long  beloved  and  waited  for,  it  came  $ 
It  bore  a  message  to  my  fainting  heart, 
And  caused  sweet  tears  through  my  closed  eyes  to 
start. 

It  told  my  heart  that  love  was  ling'ring  still 
Around  the  places  where  I  once  did  dwell  3 


THE     DREAM     OF     THE     SICK.  311 

In  every  grove —  near  every  bubblinpr  rill  — 
On  every  mound  —  in  every  peaceful  dell  — 
The  guardian  spirit  of  the  place  was  love; 
I  left  it  there,  nor  will  it  thence  remove. 

"Well,  as  I  said,  it  came  ;  the  zephyr's  breath 
Came  to  my  pillow  from  the  far  off  west  ; 
'Twas  a  long  journey  through  a  world  of  death, 
But,  till  it  reached  me,  would  it  take  no  rest, 
That  messenger  of  love;  —  all  spent  it  came; 
A  dying  zephyr  to  a  dying  frame. 

I  felt  the  faint  breeze  wand'ring  o'er  my  cheek, 
Then  sank  to  sleep ;  and  as  I  slept,  I  dream'd  ; 
And  in  that  blessed  dream  I  felt  not  weak 
And  dying  ;  no  !   with  youthful  step  I  seem'd 
O'er  well  remembered  scenes  again  to  roam, 
Once  more  a  tenant  of  my  western  home. 

O !   there  I  wandered  as  in  days  of  yore, 
And  back  to  life  came  dear  departed  ones  ; 
I  -aw  them  as  I  \e  seen  them  oft  before, 
My  own,  my  best  beloved  !  and  setting  suns 
Threw  their  mild  dying  light  on  many  a  scene, 
Where,  in  my  dream,  we  roved  through  forests 
green. 

How  long  I  slept  I  know  not.     Long,  long  hours 
I  seenrd  communing  with  the  joyous  past  ; 
Sometime!  I  saw  the  brilliant  summer  flowers, 
And  sometimes  heard  the  moaning  winter  blast. 
Dreams  are  not  bounded  by  the  lapse  of  time, 
Nor  chain'd  to  place,  mind  in  its  flight  sublime. 


312  THE     DREAM     OF     THE     SICK. 

In  peaceful  paths  we  wander'd  hand  in  hand, 
We  three,  whose  hearts  had  "melted  into  one  \  " 
On  flowery  hills  inhaled  the  breezes  bland, 
And  silent  watched  the  slow  descending  sun  ; 
While,  every  moment,  grew  more  soft,  more  faint, 
The  rosy  hue  that  sunset  loves  to  paint. 

I  woke.     'Twas  but  a  dream ;  but  dreams  have 

power 
To  cheer  the  heart  when  real  joys  have  fled  ', 
And,  while  I  thought  of  many  a  by-gone  hour, 
I  to  my  throbbing  heart  this  promise  made  : 
"  If  e'er  in  distant  lands  again  I  roam, 
I  '11  speed  me  to  that  zephyr's  western  home." 

Charleston,  May  20,  1841. 


THE      END 


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